


I Don't Know When I'll Be Fine

by Fuzzball457



Series: The Bartender AU No One Asked For [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Background Laf/Herc, Bartender John, Basically the Bartender AU no one asked for, Because I love him that's why, College, Drama, Drugs, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Violence, Philip is Alex's bro, Robbery, Secrets, lots of swearing, sassy lafayette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:46:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzball457/pseuds/Fuzzball457
Summary: Alex's plans include law school, working at the paper to keep his apartment, and getting his brother Philip through in one piece. His plans do not include a stupidly cute bartender with a predilection for self-torment and a love of turtles.It's fine though, he's pretty sure he can swing it. Probably. Maybe.Or The Bartender AU no on asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the Hamilton fanverse so here we go! Philip is Alex's younger brother in this because I love him to bits but he doesn't fit otherwise so this is what you get :P
> 
> Obviously I only own the plot line, all characters and whatnot are not my property, including the song lyrics. 
> 
> My goal is to update weekly on Mondays and I have a few more chapters written, so hopefully I can make that stick.

_Shit never goes the way that you planned_  
_Success is a door that always slams_  
_I'm trying to break it_  
_I'm trying to break it_  
_Searching for words, and praying for signs_  
_I struggle to find the rhythm and rhyme_  
_Don't know how to say it_  
_Don't know how to say it_

Miracle - The Score  
(Title is from the same song)

* * *

 

 “Yo, Pip, clean your shit up, dude!” Alex calls as he stumbles over something or other in the doorway. And it doesn’t really matter that disarray is more typical of Alexander himself than his younger brother – Alex’s little desk is overflowing with stacks of papers, books, even a plate or two – because he’s the adult here dammit so he gets to be picky about these things.

Philip replies from the kitchen with something likely less than flattering, but Alex can’t really make it out over the sound of dishes being washed, so he lets it go.

“Did you make dinner?” Alex asks, wishing he was surprised to find the answer was yes. It makes him feel guilty and insufficient, but a pre-law undergraduate track leaves very little time for playing parent. And it fills him with shame, an acidic pain in his stomach, when he sees just how hard Philip works to keep their stupid little apartment clean and food on the table. How hard he works to fill in all the gaps Alex leaves.

“Cajun,” Philip says with a nod towards a wonderfully smelling pot on the stove. Cajun. Alex’s favorite. Jesus, he doesn’t deserve this kid.

He musses Philip’s hair – a curly bundle more reminiscent of their mother than of Alexander or their father – just to make the teenager squirm and snipe at him. Someone has to remind him that he’s a teenager, one who is allowed to have fun, despite the dependable seriousness that Philip approaches everything with.

Philip had once been a small kid, full of boundless energy and excitement, but the passing of their mother, already flying as a solo parent, nearly four years earlier had hardened the boy more than Alex liked. He’d tried hard, God had he tried, to give Philip the life he was used to, the kind he deserved, with a happy family and the picket fence, but it wasn’t in the cards for them. He was proud of the resilient, lanky kid standing at the sink without complaint like no other seventeen year old ever, but he wished he hadn’t had to become quite so grown up so fast.

“Are you still going to that thing tonight?”

“Yeah, it should be good,” he replies absently as he pours himself a bowl of the spicy, aromatic thing in the pot.

It was the grand opening of Hercules Mulligan’s bar, the culmination of years of dreams and hard work. Alex wasn’t as close with the guy as he used to be, but even he wouldn’t miss a chance to see all his old friends together in one spot. Besides, he wanted to support his friend in his first solo business adventure.

“You’ll be okay here by yourself?” Alex asks, a sliver of worry suddenly overcoming him. It was a Friday night, true, but he was a brother first, college student second.

The degree of dry sass leveled his way would have made weaker men shrivel. “I’m seventeen, Alex, if I haven’t learned by now how to stay home alone for a few hours without setting something on fire, I’m pretty much screwed.”

“I know, I know. It’s just…I worry, you know?” Alex had always been the sort to tease his brother mercilessly and deck anyone else who would dare do so all in the same breath, but it wasn’t until his sudden guardianship that he found himself possessed with the quiet anxiety of the need to ensure this person was okay at all times. Philip was good about it, indulgent even, dutifully replying the ‘just checking you’re okay’ texts at any time of the day with no hassle.

 -

Alex wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he pushed open the door, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t what he found. It’s high energy, but comfortable. Welcoming and familiar, but without that tinge of miserable middle aged men. There is enough lighting not to feel creepy, but not so much as to feel jilting. Like a party that one crazy uncle who was weirdly insightful might throw. In typical Herc fashion there were a few balloons floating around as well as a tray of cupcakes on the house.

A few people he didn’t recognize had taken up residence in some of the booths, undoubtedly here for the half priced apps for opening night. Others he vaguely recognized from the college.

“Alexander, _mon cher_ , come join me!”

“Why am I not surprised you started without me,” Alex laughs, gesturing to the half drunken pink drink on the counter.

“It’s not my fault,” Lafayette says silkily as he takes a sip of the garish thing, “Herc had me all set up before I could so much as take a seat.”

“I don’t doubt it. Where is the man of the hour?”

“Outback I think? But that pretty little thing can make you just about anything you can dream up.” Alex follows his finger to the other end of the bar, where the bartender is chatting with other customers.

Pretty doesn’t seem to do the man justice. He’s taller than Alex - who isn’t? - with a more athletic build. Even the simple v-neck he’s sporting looks flattering, showing his well-developed biceps and the black ink peeking out from under his left sleeve. His hair is a wild mess of curls, barely tamed by the hair tie pulling it back. But it isn’t until the man follows Lafayette’s flagging hand that Alex really sees him in all his glory. Freckles everywhere, painting constellations across his wonderful olive skin, and eyes that dance between hazel and green.

Oh boy.

“Can I get you something?”

“Uh?”

Alex is painfully aware of how the way the man’s smile is faltering slightly in confusion and the way Lafayette’s eyes are boring holes into the side of his head.

“He’ll have a beer, honey. Whatever’s on tap, thanks.” Lafayette saves him with grace, just like always, and tsks at him as the bartender goes to fetch a glass. “Oh, honey, you went head over heels so fast I think you may have broken your nose.”

“What?” Alex asks, finally drawing his gaze off the bartender. But Lafayette just stares at him in _that way_ that is so typical of Lafayette he might as well patent it. “What?” he repeats, this time with annoyance, “He seems like…a perfectly nice person.”

“A perfectly nice person? Yeah, I can see it’s his personality that’s got you all tripped up.”

Alex’s dignity is saved by the arrival of Hercules.

“Boys! How’s it going?” Hercules is a boisterous man with a personality to match his size. He’s not much for politics or law, but he’s, despite his booming voice and impressive size, the most level-headed and rational of the lot of them.

Alex will forever be grateful for these two knuckleheads that found him at his lowest, a college freshman in a foreign state with no friends and freshly without parents, and took him under their wings. He’s not sure he’d be here today if it wasn’t for them and their shenanigans to get through each day.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Lafayette cheers, raising his pink abomination into the air.

“Indeed,” Alex agrees, trying not to watch too obviously as the bartender approaches with his beer. Herc swings his arm around the boy’s shoulders, dwarfing him immediately, and grabs the beer to drop it onto the counter, unconcerned as foam slips over the rim.

“Johnny-boy, this is Alex and Lafayette. Anything they want, it’s on the house tonight!”

“Herc, no!” Alex immediately protests while Lafayette asks for another pink thing and the bartender – John? – begins assembling it. “It’s day one, you can’t start in the red.”

“I didn’t say free drinks for everyone, just you guys. Relax, my friend! Don’t worry about me, I’m making a damn good profit!” He laughs as he gestures to the many other patrons. It’s true, it is a good turnout. Besides his energy is infectious and all-consuming in its sincerity and Alex can’t help but grin. He’s here to have a good time, dammit. He hasn’t completely forgotten what it was to be a carefree youth.

“So where’d you find this one?” he can’t help but ask, nodding towards the new guy, now further down the bar fixing someone else a drink.

“John? Well I was unloading the new stools sometime last week and it’s pouring cats and dogs, you know? And along comes this drenched rat and the kid stops and offers to help. Like the kid looked like he was ten seconds from death and he fucking offers to help!” Herc lets out a chuckle as if he still can’t believe it. All Alex can think is what a miserable sight that poor guy must have made, his poof of curls flat and stuck to his head. “So anyway we get to talking as he’s helping me and he mentions he’s got a little bartending experience and looking for a job and here we are! He seems like a good kid, you know?”

Normally Alex would scold his larger than life friend for his damned bleeding heart, but presently he’s merely grateful because somehow this crazy world brought him into the same time and place as this goon and his ridiculously cute bartender.

After assuring he’d be back by later to check on them, Herc scurries off to check on the cooks.

“It’s been a while, no?”

Alex forces his gaze back to Lafayette, who’s peering at him over the rim of his glass. It’s meant as a reassurance, a gentle bit of permission to go forward, but it strikes Alex oppositely.

It has been quite a while since he spared anyone so much as a second glance. It wasn’t out of any intentional desire for isolation, but it was hard to find time, between school and work and trying to keep track of his alarmingly independent little brother. It’s not that he doesn’t get lonely or that he doesn’t desperately crave someone else to lean on at times, it’s that it would seem too much like dropping the ball, an admission he can’t handle this all on his own. Philip is his absolute top priority, making sure the kid has food on the table and heat under his feet, and he finds most of his courses so captivating he can’t help but give them his all. There’s just no room to carve out time for someone else and he couldn’t make them a priority even if he wanted to.

“It never hurts to have another friend, _mon cher_ ,” Lafayette adds because that man can be unbelievably perceptive sometimes. His eyes are soft, no pushing anything or judging him, just wanting happiness for his friends. Alex feels the gaze like a light hug, cocooning him in reassurance.

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees non-committedly and Laf seems to take the hint, moving on to ask about work.

Alex has a paid internship at the city newspaper – as a scholarship student, he doesn’t qualify for work-study – which is equal parts enjoyable and frustrating. No matter how diligent Alex is in getting their coffee, fetching prints from the copy room, or typing up the local crime report, his unsolicited suggestions seem to go unnoticed and his full potential remains unrealized. These glimpses behind the scenes can be riveting, but he never was great at holding his tongue when he found something, be it an article, a writer, or a format, disagreeable. It’s only his ever present duty to Philip that keeps him in check some days.

 -

“Last call, mates!” Herc calls out. It doesn’t feel like hours have passed, the atmosphere light and energetic and the alcohol free-flowing. Alex is a few drinks in and hovering just on the pleasant side of wasted while Lafayette, a surprisingly heavy-weight given his slim stature, looks almost entirely unruffled. There are only a few other people besides them left, and they file out into the night with the coordination of startled chickens.

“A resounding success, I think,” Alex says as Herc makes his way over, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t slur? At least not a lot. Maybe.

“I’ll say. You boys need any help getting home?”

“No, it’s not a far walk,” Lafayette replies, moving to gather his grey pea coat from the back of his stool.

Hercules frowns and, after a moment of apparent internal deliberation says, “I’d rather you didn’t go alone?”

“It’s not me you should worry about. I can take care of myself. Alex is the one who drove here.” Alex goes to protest, because he can most certainly take care of himself too, but it comes out as barely-discernable grumbling and the others ignore him entirely, as though he was a petulant child in the corner.

“I have my car, I can drive him?” John offers, drying a glass in his hands as he approaches. “I just have to finish cleaning up.” Alex stares blankly at him, unable to believe his own luck. It can’t be healthy for a person’s heart to beat this fast, right? Because good Lord this guy is sweet and kind too?

“No, I can’t ask that of you,” Hercules frets because the damn giant is literally melted cheese inside.

“It’s fine, really. Make sure that one gets home and I’ll take care of this one.”

“At least let me comp you the gas.” And somehow both Hercules and Lafayette already have their wallets open, fishing out some cash, which John resoundingly rejects, finally pushing them out the door after reassuring Hercules three times that he remembers how to close up properly.

Why does Hercules keep the temperature so damn high in the bar?

“So, Alex, right?” John asks pleasantly as he finishes restacking the clean glasses and moves to wiping down the bar and table tops.

“Yes? I mean, yes.” His brain is sluggish and the lovely view of John’s athletic figure bent over tables is not helping.

“Herc said you were a student at the university?”

“Yeah, Laf and I are-” What was the word again? “Pre…pre-law.” He tries to remember if he’s ever seen John around campus, but surely not? Surely he’d remember someone like that. “What about you? What are you studying?”

John tenses for just a second before laughing awkwardly. Gone are the careless strokes of his rag, they become methodical and focused. An intentional distraction. “Actually, I’m not…I’m just taking a few courses at the community college, you know? Just here and there.”

The tiny undercurrent of shame and the way Alex can see him preparing for judgement – they make something sour build in his stomach. Does John think Alex is the sort of person who cares about that? About prestige and all that nonsense? He rushes to reassure him otherwise and ends up nearly shouting, “That’s fantastic!” and drawing a startled look out of the poor man.

Good God Alex needs to go home like yesterday because his chances with this guy are souring by the second.

“What, uh, what kind of classes?” he asks, aiming for some semblance of recovered dignity after his previous squawk.

John laughs, a melodious thing that Alex immediately revels in, and offers him a self-mocking smile. “I’m kinda all over the place, you know? I’m into biology, like natural sciences, but also art? I’m not on a degree track so it doesn’t really matter.” Alex wants to pluck that ‘haha what a fool I am’ tone right out of John’s repertoire, but John doesn’t give him time. “Are you from ‘round here?”

“I’m actually from Nevis, in the-the Caribbean,” he adds when he sees John’s mildly panicky ‘the-hell-is-that’ look, “but my mother, she brought my brother and I to, uh, to New York when we were young, so it’s basically…basically home now.” He’s not as eloquent as usual, but even drunk him can run his mouth well enough. “You?”

“Just moved here actually, ‘bout a month ago. From South Carolina. But I’m liking it well enough.”

“Why did you move?” he starts to ask, but John doesn’t let him get the full sentence out.

“That should be good enough. I can sweep more in the morning.”

The car ride is brutally short, just under five minutes, and consists mostly of Alex delivering directions. Knowing John is a newcomer to town, he briefly debates leading the man through an elaborate round about loop just to buy more time with him, but the thought of Herc offering the kid cash for his gas makes Alex feel too guilty. For all he knows gas could be a hardship for the other man.

“This is it. Home sweet home.” He wonders if the faded brick apartment building looks pitiable to John, but he doesn’t ask, instead offering his thanks for the ride and sending the other man off with much less fanfare than he would have preferred.

The light is on in the living room and Alex startles as he finds Philip’s slumbering form buried under a blanket on the couch. Shame courses hot and quick through him as he realizes Philip likely attempted to stay up for Alex, fully believing his earlier statements, as Alex had at the time, that he was just going to have a drink or two and be back quick.

“Fuck, Pip, I’m sorry,” he whispers. He fetches another blanket from the hall closet, nearly losing his balance more than once, and covers Philip with it because they keep the apartment cooler than is comfortable to spare a few bucks and one blanket isn’t nearly enough.

His shame follows him into his own bedroom. He wasn’t just any college student, free to loosen their inhibitions whenever they wanted. What if something had happened while he was gone? What if something had come up but Alex was too drunk to help or even get himself home? And now he’d have to find a ride back to the bar tomorrow to get his car, taking up even more of his time on this damn night.

“Shit,” he hisses as he drops, fully clothed, onto his bed. He lets thoughts of John Laurens and his ridiculous freckles and infectious smile slip into a folder reserved for dreams he has no time for and tries not to imagine the hangover he’s going to face in the morning.

 -

Monday morning begins with tumultuously suggestive thick grey clouds. That alone is enough to tell Alex he’s not in for a good day as storms are a sure fire way to set him on edge. The fact that Philip is short with him before Alex can get so much as a ‘morning’ out only adds icing on the cake. He has Constitutional Law and Governmental Powers with Professor Washington first thing, which is usually enough to get Alex eagerly out the door but even that coupled with seeing Lafayette in the class isn’t enough today.

He’d made a fool of himself on Friday along with making himself sick for most of Saturday and work on Sunday had put him dearly behind on his homework for the week.

Lafayette takes one look at him before grabbing his arm and dragging him on a coffee detour before class.

With a sneer, Thomas Jefferson – Hamilton’s debate opponent for the duration of the class – settles himself right in front of Alex, blocking his view of the board with his untamed mane, and isn’t that just perfect. It’s only the look Lafayette shoots him, something along the lines of ‘chill, grasshopper’, that keeps him from reaching forward to strangle the other student.

After his third and final class he meets back up with Lafayette at the library and they settle themselves in for a long night of studying.

_‘Be home late’,_ he shoots to Philip and he frowns at the unusually short _‘k’_ he gets back. Should he be worried? Is his brother sore about something?

But he forces the thoughts of that aside as he cracks open his textbook and a new cup of coffee. He loses himself in his political science work for a good few hours, soothed by Lafayette’s quiet presence next to him.

The growl of his stomach startles him out of his reverie and he’s further surprised to find the clock edging on seven.

Lafayette stares at him contemplatively before glancing back at his own book and quickly mentioning, “John’s working tonight.”

“What?” Alex demands quickly because why would that matter? It’s not like Alex cares. He also notices the other man’s phone hiding under the table on his lap where the bastard probably texted Hercules to ask exactly that.

He stares at Lafayette’s pseudo-innocent profile for a beat or two before caving just a bit. Good company is hard to find, alright? No sense in wasting it. “I suddenly find myself craving a stiff drink.”

And maybe the pleased smile Lafayette shoots him helps just a little.

 -

As promised, John is working, looking slightly harried by the after work rush, but he greets them with a pleasant smile nonetheless. Herc is by his side, making the drinks for those sitting at the tables and running food to the few people who actually ordered anything other than a drink. The menu is small, mostly involving fried fare like chicken tenders, fries, and onion rings, but Alex knows Herc put an alarming amount of time into ensuring they were the best recipes he could get his hands on. One of the two cooks is working. Alex can just see his head bobbing through the little shelf where the food waits to be delivered.

“Hey, mates, have a seat!” he calls as he hurries past them with a delicious smelling basket of something. Alex was hoping they’d pretty much have the place to themselves, but the crowd at least seems to be thinning rather than growing.

Alex is careful to ensure he only has one drink because not only does he need to drive home, but he has work bright and early tomorrow.

A good half an hour after their arrival John finally has a few seconds to spare for idle chat with them. “So how’s your day been?” he asks.

“Utter shit,” Alex grumbles, letting his glass slam a little extra hard on the counter after his swallow for a dramatic flare.

“Oh!” John seems a little taken aback, but Lafayette just laughs.

“Ignore him, _mon ami,_ thunderstorms just make him pissy.”

“I’m not pissy,” he mutters under his breath because wow, way to make him look like a douche. It’s not his fault. Little strands of anxiety always slip into the back of his mind when he hears that ominous crack of thunder because once upon a time that crack of thunder meant the beginning of fear and pain and loss and lots of damage. The hurricane was many years past him, but the residual sliver of unease never quite faded.

“Good to know,” John chuckles. “Personally, bad drivers make me pissy,” he says with a shrug and Alex maybe falls in love just a little bit because how can someone make his mood feel so much better so quickly? “Do you need to vent? Maybe rant a little? I’m all ears.”

“Oh no, no, no!” Herc shouts, coming out of nowhere, “Don’t ever invite Alexander Hamilton to rant because that boy will never shut up. I swear the man could give a thirty minute sermon on the sin of jaywalking if you asked him to.”

Alex doesn’t even fight back because he’s too busy watching the little crinkles at the edges of John’s eyes as he laughs full-out, tilting his head back and letting the joyous noise sail out.

For once Alex lets himself take a back seat in the conversation, watching as the other three share jabs like old pals. He’s content to watch, to let the feelings of satisfaction and belonging wash over him.

Suddenly a sharp voice cuts through their pleasant haze. “Can I get some fucking service over here?”

All four heads turn to see a stout man with greasy brown hair pulled back into a short pony tail.

“Fucking Lee,” Alex hisses under his breath.

Charles Lee is a graduate student and a Graduate Teaching Assistant for several of Alex’s PolySi classes. He also happens to be a colossal prick, full of himself and somehow kissing professor’s asses while lording his power of undergrads all in one breath.

“Yeah, sorry, man,” John says, speaking slowly at first before slipping into his customer service voice. “What can I get for you?”

“A better bartender would be nice,” he plows over both Alex and Lafayette’s objections as John falters slightly, “but, failing that, I guess a whiskey on the rocks will have to do.”

“What a dickbag,” Alex growls, glaring at Lee while Lafayette shakes his head in disapproval beside him.

“Such uncouth behavior,” the Frenchman adds.

Lee skulks off to a table, drink in hand, and John, after pouring refills for a few young women at the other end of the bar, returns, looking startled but unoffended.

Despite Hercules' warnings, John does let Alex vent, taking his various complaints in good stride and sharing side-eye glances with Lafayette. Alex doesn't mind being the butt of the joke if it keeps the mood good. Eventually John has to do some actual work ("Keeping Alex occupied _is_ a full time job," John whines as Hercules shoos him away to bring drinks to a table in the back.)

Alex watches it unfold before him in horrifying slow motion. A man, unaware of the destruction he’s about to cause, jerks his chair back and leaps to his feet, perhaps to get a refill or just to take a piss; either way, he turns, plowing into John’s back and his tray of three full beers. The amber liquid, in all its foamy, sticky goodness, explodes across the nearest table, John’s startled, off-balance body following suit. He lands in the lap of a surprised, beer-soaked man seated across from an equally soaked and rapidly reddening Lee.

Lee flies to his feet at the same time as Alex, and before anyone can blink, the pugnacious man hauls John to his feet by his shirt and lands a sharp right hook across the frozen bartender’s face.

“Hey!”

With Lafayette and Hercules at his heels, Alex dashes over, fueled by white hot anger. Chaos is erupting around them, people leaping to their feet in surprise only to stare, unmoving in their shock. Gasps and protests fill the air but Alex, from across the bar, is the first one to intervene, grabbing Lee’s arm from where it’s poised for a second strike, and ripping him backward.

“Get the fuck off him!”

John stumbles back into the table and Lafayette and Hercules appear at his sides, guard dogs at the ready.

Alex can see the gears turning in Lee’s head, debating, but Alex stops that with a quick, “Don’t even think about it.”

Herc steps in front of John and jabs a finger at the door. “Get out and don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”

And damn, Alex forgot just how intimidating Herc could be when he let his frame fill with his full intensity. “Shit, let me get some rags,” he mutters, disappearing behind the bar. Lee’s companion stands awkwardly between them, but remains wisely silent. With his eyes locked downward, he pulls a few bills out of his wallet, tosses them on the table and makes a hasty exit.

Lafayette watches him go like an eagle stalking its prey. John goes to scoop up the pieces, but Alex halts his descent, clasping John’s bicep between his fingers. Alex gives him a significant look, but John offers him only a flat stare in return.

“Jesus,” Herc mutters under his breath as he appears before them. He drops a few rags onto the table, but turns to John, whose arm is still clamped in Alex’s grip, before beginning. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles grumpily, pulling out of Alex’s grasp and plucking at his soaked shirt. “Fucking hell, man.”

“Why don’t you take thirty? There’s an extra shirt in the back you can borrow if you want,” Herc offers. John accepts with a nod, the lines of his face still angry and tense. Lafayette hovers for a moment before glancing significantly at Alex and beginning to help Hercules.

Alex can feel adrenalin pumping in his veins. He’s ready to go, just spoiling for a chance to defend John. But there’s something off in the terse lines of John’s back and Alex claps a hand onto his shoulder as he passes, satisfied for now with tending to John instead of defending him. “You sure you okay?” he asks, tone intentionally light. He doesn’t want John to think Alex views him as weak because he doesn’t. There was a flash, just the briefest of moments, where he saw the raw potential, saw John ready to spring on Lee, ready to fight dirty. It was something beyond the scrappiness Alex himself was usually charged with. It was something feral. 

“I said I’m fine, didn’t I?” John snaps, shooting Alex a glare of fire before sliding out from under his grasp and stomping towards the back room, leaving Alex adrift and more than a little stung. He can see Lafayette eyeing him with a curious frown from where he’s kneeling on the ground.

A better man would go after John. A better man would smooth those rough edges and burrow to the root of the problem.

Alex isn’t a better man. His pride throbs from the sharp crack of John’s whip-like anger and he makes his way quickly to the bar, ignoring the many stares burrowing holes into his back from startled patrons, and scoops up his keys and jacket. Lafayette meets him half way. “Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles. Lafayette looks doubtful for a moment, shooting an uncertain glance at Hercules behind the bar, but Alex levels him with a ‘Don’t think I won’t leave you here’ look.

It’s an extremely short car ride to Lafayette’s apartment, but he idles in the car after they arrive under the pretense of digging his keys out of his bag.

Alex white knuckles the steering wheel, determinedly staring straight ahead.

“He was just upset,” Laf finally says, undoubtedly watching Alex’s profile.

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I was trying to help? Like, what the fuck? Who does that shit?” he snaps, anger simmering deep in his veins. He wants to snarl at John for his ungrateful attitude, but the desire to hunt down Lee and make him pay for ruining a good night presses more urgently at him.

“You should go home, Alexander,” Lafayette says, still leaning in the car through the open door.

What a perceptive shit.

“Yeah, yeah.” And then it’s just him and the stupid little car light.

The drive home does allow one realization to take shape in his mind. You don’t hurt if you don’t care and, even after knowing John a grand total of four days, he is hurting bad.

 -

“For the love of God, Pip, what have I told you about leaving your shit – Pip?” The house is dark, despite still being early evening. Rising alarm slides along his back, standing his hair on end. Something is off. He treads quietly to Philip’s room and, after squinting through the dark for a moment trying to decide what might be blankets and what might be boy, concludes that Philip is indeed absent.

It’s not like him not to check in if he isn’t going to be home. He knows Alex worries and Alex is worrying dammit! Heart starting to beat a little urgent tempo in his chest, Alex flies around the rest of the small apartment, thinking up insane excuses for why Philip is maybe asleep in the closet or studying behind the couch because he’s here, dammit, he has to be.

Alex is flying so fast, looking not unlike an anime character as he sprints forward, arms flung behind him, that he nearly misses it. The faintest little _Alex?_ he ever heard. Not even a breath. A ghost of a breath. He stumbles back into the bathroom, all speed and no grace, and rips the shower curtain back.

And just like that, there he is. Not lost. Not bleeding out in some gutter. Just…sitting in the tub?

Philip is curled tight and small, face pressed against his drawn up knees. The shower isn’t on and Philip is still fully clothed. His fingers though…his fingers are twisted deep in his hair, clenching mercilessly on the auburn strands and pressing tightly against his scalp.

“Pip?” he asks, feeling as though he had just stepped under an icy spray. Everything screams _wrong, wrong, wrong_ but he doesn’t know _what’s_ wrong. “Philip?” he repeats when he gets no answer. He drops to his knees, all traces of his previous anger and irritation gone, and leans on the edge of the tub, letting his hand trail over the knobby protrusions of his brother’s spine.

With a shuddering sigh, Philip croaks out, “head” in the most miserable voice Alex has ever heard from the fierce boy.

“Migraine?” he asks, confused. Sure Alex himself got a migraine every now and then, after too many days and nights of non-stop work and a full-stop on food and sleep, but he can’t recall Philip ever getting one. But, what with the no lights and the seeking of the cool bathtub, Alex can’t deny that’s exactly what it looks like. First time for everything, he supposes. “Did you take something for it?”

“No,” Philip hisses immediately, catching Alex off guard with the vehemence in his voice.

“Do you want something?” he offers slowly. Philip’s head flies up and _holy shit_ his kid is a mess. His face is splotchy, eyes looking half deranged with how wide and red they are. Tear tracks, both dried and fresh, stain nearly his entire lower face. He’s shaking, and badly at that. Alex can’t recall ever seeing him like this, not even when he was a little child prone to scrapped knees or as a newly orphaned teenager plagued by nightmares.

He looks ready to fly apart at the seams, body practically vibrating with miserable energy.

“No!” he insists, “No, Alex, no, don’t give me anything.”

He can’t help but frown, brain whirring into overdrive as he tries to figure it out. Philip sounds almost like he’s…punishing himself? Like he doesn’t deserve relief. But that makes absolutely no sense so instead he asks, “You sure? Because you’re kinda scaring me, buddy.” Open and honest had always been their policy and it’d served them well so far.

“Yes,” he all but cries, fresh tears bubbling over. “Just stay?” It comes out so small and scared, a kicked puppy unsure if reward or punishment faces it at each turn.

And how can Alex not?

“Of course, Pip, _of course_.” He climbs into the tub and pulls the younger boy to lean back against his chest, spares enough thought for his future back to snag both a towel to lean against and one to cover Philip. He truly is shaking, tremors racing up and down his back, and Alex can feel his heart stampeding through his chest.

Is this truly a headache, he wants to ask, because it looks a lot more like fear and his Philip should never be this afraid.

 -

There’s a text from John on his phone when he wakes up in the morning, having, thankfully, calmed Philip down enough to get them both settled in Alex’s bed. It felt detrimental to the both of them to insist on Pip sleeping in his own room.

Alex doesn’t even know how the other man got his number, but that fact that he sought it out just to apologize make Alex’s heart flutter just a bit.

_Sorry for being such an ass last night, I was overwhelmed and caught off guard. I’ll give you one on the house if you stop by tonight?_

He can’t, he really can’t, but he offers to stop by Wednesday as a peace offering.

One that John accepts with a smiley face.

He texts Philip probably more times than necessary, but he can’t help the anxiety that keeps bubbling up in his chest when he thinks of how small and terrified Philip had seemed. To his credit, Philip doesn’t haggle him about it, just alternates between apologizing for being stupid ( _you weren’t)_ , assuring Alex he’s fine ( _are you?)_ , and thanking him for being there ( _always, kid, always)_. 

Off to a good start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what day it is!! I've never been so pumped for a Monday! This chapter is a little bit shorter, but I think they get longer from here on out.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your overwhelmingly positive responses, I was so blown away! I'm especially glad you all liked Philip because his subplot will take center stage briefly in later chapters so he's not going anywhere any time soon. Your comments keep me going!
> 
> Also a shout out to my phenomenal fiancée who keeps my life and my writing in check and threatens me daily with bodily harm lest I fail to finish this fic. Bambi lesbians for the win :D

It becomes an easy routine. Two, sometimes even three times a week he stops by Herc’s bar. It’s mostly to say hi to John and no one labors under any delusions otherwise, but it’s pleasant nontheless to spend more time with Hercules and, when he can, Lafayette. He forgot how much he missed these fools.

He watches and he learns and he loves.

He loves the way John will open up, gathering speed and enthusiasm with every word when he talks about something he’s passionate about. Coming out of his shell just like the turtles he loves so.

He loves the way John talks about his mother and his siblings, tenderness coating his voice and bringing out a fond look that softens his edges. His mother is dead just like Alex’s, he learns early on, but John refuses to avoid talking about her, determined to keep her alive if only in his memories.

He loves the way John blushes, quick and embarrassed, when Alex flirts with him, dropping double entendres left and right and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. John’s a world-weary kid for sure, but he blushes like a virginal maiden when Alex so much as winks at him.

He comes to realize he’s perhaps maybe a little tiny bit in love.

John’s hot, for sure, but he’s also sweet and loyal and self-doubting in a way that makes Alex want to wrap him up and never let him doubt for one second he is cherished.

The first kiss is awkward. Alex had stayed after closing one night, as had become his routine – Hercules has finally hired another bartender so John isn’t working every night anymore – and John had been distracted telling Alex a story about his mother as he cleaned. Entirely oblivious, John had stretched across the bar to wipe down a spot near Alex, putting himself just inches away. Alex didn’t let the opportunity go to waste, overcome with affection for this freckled, tough nut of a kid. And just like that he pecked John on the check.

For a moment John had looked so startled that Alex began to panic. Maybe all that embarrassment had really come from a place of being too kind to say no. Maybe he’d over stepped?

And then John grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands and nearly dragged Alex across the bar to kiss him proper.

The teasing Lafayette had given him the next day about the numerous visible hickies on his neck was worth it.

 -

John’s an easy person to fall in love with, but he’s not an easy person to be in love with. He’s friendly and approachable, always pleased to see Alex walk in, but he keeps most of his cards close to his chest. It takes Alex a while to notice how one sided their conversations sometimes are or how they keep things so superficial that John will only offer repetitious variations on a select few personal stories if pressed.

Lafayette tells him to be patient. Hercules tells him to be patient. Philip tells him to never ever discuss his romantic life with him ever again.

“This is not some whirlwind romance, _mon ami_. It will take time. Don’t rush things. He has, perhaps not had the best life?”

 _Neither have I_ , Alex wants to whine, but he resists such petulance. Barely.

And it’s not as if Lafayette’s sage advice is baseless. Even in high school, before his mother had died, Alex used to rush head first into relationships, letting himself succumb quickly to obsession and burning the candle on both ends. It never lasted.

And John Laurens is one thing he wants to last.

He gives space when it’s requested, and it _is_ requested, learns to read the warning signs John gives him. He learns John is just as viciously independent as Alex himself is when Alex attempts to leave him a ridiculously large tip one night. Also like Alex, he is driven by some energy-consuming, soul-crushing need to prove himself.

For Alex, he wants to prove it to the world. To prove he deserves to be Philip’s brother. To prove he deserves to live when his mother didn’t.

For John, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s to prove to himself. Or maybe an overly possessive ex or strict, disproving father. But Alex understands where he’s going, if not where he came from. He’s not as stubborn or opinionated as Alex, but his temper is equally quick to flare and, where Alex is always ready to verbally eviscerate someone, John is always spoiling for a fight. He doesn’t let it interfere with his job. He’s pleasant to customers and able to take rudeness without retort, but he’s also willing to be a little extra rough escorting out trouble makers or to get in a few good licks of his own breaking up the occasional fight.

Alex sees the same fire he saw that night with Lee, that lust for pain and adrenaline.

But mostly it’s easy.

A few nights a week, Alex brings his books and notes and occupies himself through the rushes. Herc has John give him free sodas on the house and Alex repays the favor by ensuring he buys a drink or two on Friday nights, when John can drive him home. And in between the rushes, he gets pleasant conversation and the occasional quick peck. Lafayette comes with him sometimes and they stake out a booth in the back.

It’s all too easy to surrender himself completely. He forgets that he is Alexander Hamilton and nothing is ever won without an uphill climb first.

He’s shaking with the angry energy surging under his skin when he stomps into the bar one Tuesday night. Lafayette’s hot on his heels, apparently loathe to let him terrorize their mutual friends by himself.

“Heads up, my friends, _il est de mauvaise humeur_ ,” he warns before Alex can get so much as a word out.

“I have a right to be in a bad mood,” he all but snarls, unaffected by the wide startle of John’s eyes. Besides him Lafayette goes still, staring inquisitively at John for no reason that Alex can discern. Now is not the time to be waxing poetic. “Fucking senators and their racist, homophobic agendas.”

“Uh, let me get you something stronger?” John offers hesitantly as he dumps out the usual soda he had begun filling. A frothing beer appears in front of him and Alex downs a good chunk of it in his first swallow. “Care to let the rest of us in on what’s going on?” John asks.

The bar is mostly empty at this time of the week and Hercules tends to the few other patrons with ease, leaving John free to listen to Alex’s tirade.

Through gritted teeth he explains – and explains by himself because Lafayette is no help whatsoever, just continues to stare at John like he’s an M.C. Escher original – about the new anti-gay marriage bill proposed by some Southern senator. It’s clever too, with some clauses that are outrageous, but serve in turn to make the central argument look entirely too reasonable. It’s restrictions on the benefits homosexual couples receive from marriage as opposed to the benefits received by heterosexual couples, including tax breaks and medical proxy access.

“It’s a piece of homophobic trash is what it is,” Alex snarls. John looks uncomfortable, rather than personally offended or ready to fly off the handle with a social justice drive. It’s irritating. How can he not care?

Alex doesn’t know how John identifies by he knows the warm feeling of John’s hand on his cock and the way John will tongue-fight him for dominance when they kiss and none of that suggests a homophobic leaning.

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Lafayette interprets, addressing John and still looking pensive, “do you know the name of the senator that brought this bill to the floor?”

John’s face twitches slightly.

“That’s the thing that caught my eye!” Alex rants, unable to believe the irony, “The dude has the same name as you! Senator fucking Laurens! Like what are the odds?”

But John isn’t bursting out laughing, he’s not jokingly denouncing his name, he’s… _going pale?_

“Isn’t that odd, John?” he repeats, losing steam by the second.

But Lafayette leans forward, letting his hand come to rest on John’s. He stares at John’s downturned face with a sad intensity before finally offering, “Your father, _non_?”

Alex freezes.

_Your father?_

His father?

He’d thought it a coincidence. It was too bizarre, too random, too…well, coincidental to be true.

He waits for a laugh, a denial, anything. But John just stares at Lafayette, looking like Lafayette had just kicked his puppy and run over his bike for good measure. Without breaking their brutal eye contact, John’s head dips up and down quickly, like they might not notice if he’s quiet enough.

Anger flashes through Alex’s body so fast he’s surprised he manages to stay on his feet.

“ _Are you fucking serious?”_ he roars, drawing their attention immediately. John has the gal to look wounded of all things, like Alex is the deceitful, lying asshole here, and Lafayette gives him _that_ look, the tread careful one. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Alex,” John begins slowly, voice sounding like something fresh out of a rock tumbler.

And Alex can’t even look at him for one more goddamned second.

He shoves off his bar stool and flings himself out the door, heart flying and breath heaving. How could John not tell him? He knows Alex is into politics, follows all the latest developments. How could he not mention his father is some homophobic Southerner who probably has more money than God himself? How could John just sit there and listen to his father rail against the sins of homosexuality? Did Henry know and not care? Or did John not even have the guts to tell him? Just ran away like some sick dog, just wanting to die in peace.

Jesus fuck.

Alex kicks the dumpster on the side of the building as hard as he can and savors the javelin of pain that laces up his leg immediately.

And here he thought they were getting somewhere. Here he thought John trusted him.

“Alex! Look I’m sor-” And that’s as far as Mr. John Laurens gets before Alex puts his fist through the other man’s face. John stumbles back, dropping painfully onto his wrist, and stares in shock at the blood on his fingertips.

“Fuck you! How could you be here, all ready to play happy little homos while your father – _your father!_ – is out there trying to destroy the lives of people just like you! What’s the matter with you?” He wants to go on forever, rage against the dying light, but John doesn’t take things like that lying down, not even from passionate little immigrants whom he had stolen dozens of kisses from.

John flies at him, grabbing him by the waist and throwing them both to the ground. Straddling Alex, he gets in a few good hits to his abdomen and all but screams, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” in Alex’s face, close enough that he can feel little bits of spittle on his nose.

He manages to wrangle an elbow free and promptly shoves it up into John’s solar plexus. John’s eyes bug out in agony and Alex uses his stunned moment to shove the taller man off him. He leaps over, ready to pin John down and strangle some sense into the other man, but suddenly they’re both flying.

Hercules’ arms are a tight band around his chest as he’s jerked off his feet and whipped around to face the other way. Behind him he can hear Lafayette pulling John to his feet. John makes a small wheezing noise and something prickles in the back of Alex’s mind. Solar plexus was a low blow perhaps…He thinks of John’s hits, carefully low to avoid damage to Alex’s ribs. His eyes flick over his shoulder, unable to resist checking if the other man is truly okay. John is bent nearly in half, Lafayette’s strong hands resting on his back and shoulder in case John should drop forward, but John’s eyes are trained on Alex’s face, pinning him to the spot.

‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he offers again, but this time it’s calm, a matter of fact. He stumbles to an upright position, Lafayette muttering worriedly in French at his side, before turning on his heel and whisking himself away into the safe confines on the bar. The few people at the end of the alley who had gathered to watch move out of the way like a tide, parting to let John back into the building.

“Sorry, folks, just a little friendly spat,” Herc calls with a smile, watching closely as patrons file back into the bar and onlookers move on their way before swinging a glare at Alex. Guilt pools in the back of his throat because he could have really fucked this night up. Cops could have been called. A bad rep for Herc’s bar barely three months in.

Lafayette comes up behind him, taking Alex’s chin in his strong fingers, and checks him over. Satisfied that he’ll live, Lafayette huffs and advises, “Next time, _mon petit chien,_ I suggest you check in with your words before you check out with your fists. _J'espère que notre bon ami vous pardonne.”_

And with that he’s gone.

 _I hope our friend forgives you_.

Yeah. Alex does too.

“Look, man,” Hercules finally releases his tight hold on Alex’s arms, letting them sag to Alex’s side like dead weights, “I get where you’re coming from. But not everyone can fight the good fight for ever, you know?”

He stands back to stare at Alex’s miserable form.

Alex hopes his remorse is as clear on his face as it is in the sear of pain in his knuckles. He’d never in his life wanted to hit someone who mattered so dearly to him. Yet here he was, charging forward with his ideals at the reign and his morals flying behind yet again. He wants to go back inside to the familiar warmth and find John. To get some answers but mostly to kiss close the wounds he’d created. He wasn’t that kind of person, he wasn’t some _abuser_.

“John closes Thursday night. I suggest you don’t come around until then. I’ll send Laf out with your stuff.”

Herc’s soothing rumble trails off and he too vanishes around the corner to the bar entrance. Lafayette arrives with his bag as promised and sends him home like a grounded teenager.

The apartment is dark and Philip’s door is closed (and locked even though Alex has never, would never, breech his privacy like that) and that’s just fine because Alex wants nothing but to surrender his aching body to his bed.

 -

As advised, Alex doesn’t go to Herc’s place until Thursday, and even then he slinks in like an unwanted cat. John’s nowhere to be seen and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Herc waves at him, complete with a dopey grin, from his post like nothing was ever wrong and Alex is reminded that some things in the world are really that simple.

“Hey, you showed!” He sounds positively thrilled, entirely oblivious to the acidic taste he caused to pool in Alex’s mouth.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“John sure did.” Which is great. Just great. He’d nearly blown it just as he got knees-deep into building an actual human connection.

“Where...uh?”

“On break. Alleyway, I think,” Herc answers his unasked question like the godsend he is and Alex nods in thanks and, knowing the slightest of delays will explode into full-blown procrastination any second, pads back to the door.

Sure enough, John is in the alleyway, the very same where they’d come to blows a few days prior. He’s leaning against the brick, head tilted back and eyes closed. Something’s dangling from his fingers, smoking lazily, and the earthly scent that floods Alex’s senses tells him it’s not a Camel or Marlboro.

“Herc know you have that?” he asks casually, being sure to keep his distance. The last thing he wants to do is trap the other man, forcing that energetic hum to explode into violence once more.  

John opens his eyes and glances at him, entirely nonplussed by his presence - though Alex realizes now that he walked right by the entrance to the alley on his determined march to the bar, meaning John saw him go by and said nothing, that little shit - before taking a quick hit.

“Who do you think gave it to me?”

And, oh yeah. Perhaps being a full-grown adult and business owner didn’t necessarily mean the old Herc was left behind in the dust.

Alex tries, like really tries, to push an apology past his lips. Not for what he said, but for how he handled it. It’s just hard to put into words the electric thrum of hurt that had coursed through him when faced with the realization of just how little he knew about the other man. Why didn’t you tell me? he wants to plead over and over again.

But what comes out is, “So you’re from South Carolina then?” because fuck it, owning up is hard, okay? He’s an adult but maybe not the adultiest of adults?

The eyebrow raise suggests that John is less than impressed with his minimal attempts and he flicks his head away to stare at the opposite wall and take another hit.

Okay. Okay, Alex can work with that. He can do better. He’ll have to do better because John is worth this. But before he can get a sound out of his gaping mouth hole, John cuts him off nonchalantly, still staring at the wall, with, “I’m sorry.” So simple. Like it wasn’t anything at all to lower his pride and pull on a face of humility for Alex’s sake. Honestly Alex feels a little dupped, a little beaten to the punch because he was trying to be the bigger person, dammit, and he practiced a whole little spiel on the drive over…

“What? You-”

“Way overreacted. So I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.” His voice is sincere but he still won’t meet Alex’s gaze. Which, frankly, is annoying, but more so because apologizing seems so easy and natural to the other man. Meanwhile, Alex was tearing himself apart trying to find the perfect diction to properly elucidate his point.  No one ever said humility was one of his stronger qualities.

“No, no,” Alex urges because he was trying to be a good person and John’s not allowed to make Alex’s apology seem like a reactionary, obligatory thing, “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped all over you like that. It’s just…”

And finally, those eyes flick in his direction. Just his eyes though, not his whole gaze, as though his curiosity is impulsive and uncontrollable.

“Just?” he prompts when Alex fails to pick a proper ending from the dozens of possibilities flying around in his head, a truly alarming place to be. Take a deep breath, he reminds himself, take your time. Clarity is key and a bumbling heap of word vomit won’t get him much.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he pauses, trying to keep his voice level and non-accusatory because if one thing’s for sure it’s that he doesn’t want another fight. “Did you think I’d be... _mad?”_

John sighs, returning his stare to the apparently riveting brickwork and rolling his shoulders as though he’s preparing for intensive mental gymnastics.

“I mean...I guess I sort of thought the name gave it away?”

“There are loads of Laurens,” Alex cuts him off, pouncing to his own defense once again, earning himself an less than pleased dead stare. Right, right. Taking turns. That’s how conversation works.

“It never exactly came up? When was I supposed to tell you? When I was on my knees in the supply closet? Do you request full familial histories for all your fuck buddies?”

“Fuck buddies?” he asks because, try as he might, he can’t quite move past that descriptor. Cold and impersonal. Sexual, but not sensual. No attachment, no commitment. Not exactly encouraging as Alex has never heard people soliloquizing their desire to be fuck buddies, a phrase existing only in the present with no future implications.

But then he stumbles, because when did he begin to think ‘future’ and ‘John’ in the same sentence?

John stares unblinkingly at him and Alex has only god knows what displayed across his face but John seems far less ruffled than he is because the bartender stubs out his joint and presses off the wall.

“My life is a goddamn mess, okay?” John says it matter-of-factly, looking impatient and unimpressed with the grungy alley. “My father and I don’t get along. We don’t talk and we don’t have kumbaya political discussions over the dinner table. He was less than thrilled when I came out my senior year of high school and I was _encouraged_ to travel far for college. Got out of there as soon as I graduated. I’ve got siblings, you know? Little ones and they didn’t need to be seeing and hearing that shit, all that constant fighting. I couldn’t bear creating such a poisonous environment so I did them all a favor and cut myself right out of the picture.”

“Is that how your siblings see it?” he can’t help but ask, even as John’s wounded look cuts deep.

“It’s not like I’ll ever talk to them again to find out,” John grunts as he breezes past.  Frantic worry floods Alex because that wasn’t resolution at all, it was the exact opposite actually, and he just wants things to be okay.

But John stops at the end of the alley, silhouetted by the sinking sun. His darkened outline runs a hand through his hair and Alex sees his salvation in that weariness. “Look. We have a good thing going. Leave my father out of it and I don’t see why that has to end, okay?”

And with that, he’s gone, his request a ghost of a promise in the stale evening air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get bumpy folks, please keep all arms and legs in the cart! Also definitely a warning for language & minor bits of sexy times in this one. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support, you guys are incredible :D

Over the next few weeks Philip makes himself scarce and Alex is glad to see him spending more time with friends and school activities, if only to ease Alex’s own guilt about not being around as much.

He doesn’t know what John and he are – Alex carefully avoids using a label and John seems equally inclined – but whatever it is, it’s good. It’s almost domestic, going to the bar after class most nights. Like coming home to a partner and getting to ask “how was your day?” He even sleeps better at night, wrapped in contentment and warmth.

The days grow shorter as the crisp autumn airs begins to overtake the temperate summer humidity. Alex finds himself more and more bogged down with classes and he takes to occupying one of the back tables instead of the bar so he can really focus on the books in front of him. Most nights Alex drags himself home just after closing, grateful for the free food Hercules has started forcing on him, and drops dead into bed. Lafayette gifts him with a Keurig, apparently fed up with spending even the ten minutes in line at the coffee shop with an un-caffeinated early-morning Alex. 

The call comes late Saturday night – so late it’s technically Sunday – after a day Alex had spent entirely cooped up in his room (where the Keurig is located because why even travel down the hall without coffee when you don’t have to?) and devoid of human contact. His bed has become a full blown nest, notebooks, textbooks, and pens spread everywhere, not to mention the three mostly consumed cups and granola bar wrappers on his bedside table (the cold bit at the end is gross, okay?).

It’s nearly one thirty in the morning when Alex is roused out of his American Government textbook by his cellphone. Hercules the caller ID says. Last call was at midnight and closing didn’t normally take more than an hour at most so Alex is puzzled when he puts the device to his ear.

“Yeah?” Oh jeez, is that his voice? He sounds like roadkill that wasn’t quite killed, but that’s what he gets for walling himself off for twenty-four hours without speaking to a soul.

“Alex?” Hercules asks, which is a stupid question, because yeah, duh, but he sounds distracted and someone is speaking rapidly in the background. Alex sits up a little straighter.

Something is wrong.

“Herc, what’s going on?”

“I need you to come down here, to the bar. Now.” Alex doesn’t question it, already standing up and letting his supplies cascade off the bed. He snatches up his keys and wallet and pads down the hallway still on the phone.

“What happened?” he demands urgently, even as he’s already in motion. He scrambles a note for Philip with the phone pressed between his shoulder and ear.

Someone in the background is annoyed, loudly grumbling something and the flurry of French that follows tells him Lafayette is already there. Hercules turns away from the phone and shouts _For the love of God, just let the paramedics check you out!_ And cool, yeah, Alex is due a heart attack, nearly falling down the stairs as he double times it down to the parking lot.

Paramedics

“What the fuck is going on?” he snaps again, giving in to his racing heart and full-on sprinting across the garage to his car.

“It’s fine, everyone’s fine. Just get here.”

 -

“You said everyone was fine!” is the first thing out of Alex’s mouth and he flies towards Hercules through the chaos. There are two police cars and one ambulance outside the bar, all with lights flashing like there was any traffic at all on the offbeat road at nearly two in the morning.

Hercules is standing just outside of the door and Alex manages to catch a glimpse of Lafayette inside, sweeping. It’s easy to catch a glimpse, actually, seeing as the entire right side window is _shattered._ Tinted glass litters the sidewalk, glittering decoratively in the light of the cop cars.

But as soon as Alex arrives next to Hercules, someone else entirely captures his attention.

John is sitting in the back of the ambulance, looking moody and scowling at the paramedic tending to his shoulder. There’s blood stains down his entire right arm along with the sleeve and collar of his t-shirt, but the bandage the paramedic is affixing seems to have staunched the flow. Alex’s stomach cramps with worry either way because clearly something terrible happened and it happened on the one Saturday he wasn’t here goddammit.

“There was a robber,” Hercules helpfully adds from his side and Alex turns to stare at him, face undoubtedly pale.

“A robber?”

“Yeah, fucker smashed the window and ambushed John when he went to go see what was going on. Idiot probably thought the place was already empty for the night.”

Alex swings back around to stare at John, still looking displeased with the medical attention, because, Jesus, _ambushed_ sounds so violent! But John is still sitting under his own power, skull not bashed in and sufficiently alive if the grumpiness is anything to go by.

“They got into the scuffle and John took a tumble onto the glass, which fucked up his arm something good. The guy got away with most of the night’s deposit but John says he got a good swing at the guy’s knee with the bat,” he gestures to the bat, usually kept behind the bar, lying innocently in the cascade of glass, “so he probably didn’t get far.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Alex whistles.

“Yeah, it’s…” Herc runs a hand through his short hair, “not good.”

“You have insurance, right? They’ll cover the window and the money, I think, and we can all help get stuff back to how it’s supposed to be and,” he rambles, mind racing at how to make this right. Hercules’ distress is clear on his face and it’s not an expression Alex is familiar with, nor is it one he’d like to become familiar with.

“It’s not that.” He glances at the ground, massaging his forehead. Alex’s thoughts stumble to a halt, a sliver of foreboding overtaking him. Had something else happened? He leans a little closer, head angled to try and catch Hercules’ gaze. With a sigh, Herc looks up, but his gaze doesn’t land on Alex or even the carnage around him, it flies true as an arrow to the one thing Alex himself kept checking on. John, bloodied and tired in the back of the ambulance. The paramedic has left him alone, though a shock blanket is draped over his shoulders and he looks no less maudlin for her absence. “I should have been here. I’m always here to help close on Fridays and Saturdays, the nights when we really pull a profit. Especially Saturdays because the other kid leaves at eleven. John shouldn’t have been alone. I fucked up and now he’s hurt and it’s all my fault.”

“I doubt he sees it that way,” Alex reassures, heart constricted in sympathetic pain because that was agonizingly close to Alex’s own sentiments upon arriving.

_Why wasn’t I here?_

“Look,” he offers, knowing logic only goes so far in the face of emotion, “John’s relatively okay, yeah? And the place is fixable, the money replaceable. All in all, it’s not that bad. John’s not mad at you, I’m sure, and if he is I’ll bring him to the hospital myself to check for brain damage.” Hercules snorts and Alex knows he’s won, even before the other man swings his heavy head around to smirk at Alex. Reaching up, he gives the taller man a pat on the shoulder.

“Where were you anyway?” Alex asks curiously. Because busybodies gotta keep busy, okay?

“On a date,” he sheepishly admits, complete with eye roll.

It’s what he expected. Even this late at night he’s not oblivious to certain clues. The clean, pressed button-down, the well-shined shoes. Dressed to impress.

“With Laf?” he asks. Because somehow the Frenchman got here before Alex was even called and he knows Hercules would never intentionally delay bringing him into the loop.

“He’s a smooth motherfucka.”

“He’s French. What did you expect?” Alex says with a shrug, stepping off the curb with a parting pat on Herc’s vast chest and making his way to the other side of the guilt party.

Sure enough, the first words out of John’s thinly pressed lips are, “I can’t believe I let Herc down like that.”

Without comment, because guilt is apparently their running gag of the evening, he hops up to sit next to John on the edge of the ambulance and lets his gaze glide over the white gauze wrapped along various parts of his right arm.

“You gonna live?” he asks nonchalantly. The look John gives him is one of severe annoyance but Alex needs to soothe his own nerves and he’s trying to keep a cool façade dammit.

“Yeah. Nineteen stitches in five different spots. Mostly it’s just little stuff. I was stupid, I couldn’t get a coordinated hit in. He got away.”

“Hey,” Alex soothes, letting his hand rub along John’s tense back, “You did pretty damn well, I’d say.”

With a flat affect, the bartender describes hearing something hit, but not break the window. He went to investigate with the bat when the window all but exploded and someone tackled him to the ground. “I was so dazed and I straight up thought my arm was on fire. I had the deposit all bundled up, sitting on the counter ready for the safe. I just left it there, up for grabs. How stupid could I be?”

“No one expects something like this, not even in a city, not even in a bar.”

“I got a hit in when he was going back by me and another when he fell down but he body checked me right along my arm and slipped away before I could get another swing in.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he mumbles. He wants to snatch that self-hatred and disappointment right out of John’s mouth because it doesn’t belong there but instead he can only watch the slow implosion unfolding next to him. “You did what anyone would do. Better even. You stayed alive and you screwed his knee up.”

“He got away with the money.” His voice is steely, like he can crush his own existence between his gritted teeth if he tries hard enough.

“Herc doesn’t care about that.”

“He should.”

“He cares about you. He feels like shit for letting you get hurt on the job.”

“He didn’t _let_ me get hurt.”

“And you didn’t _let_ his money get away. You kicked and screamed all the way.”

John goes to retort with something likely aggressively self-deprecating, but Alex stops him with a feather light kiss to his wounded shoulder.

“ _I’m_ glad you’re okay. I’d rather have you alive and the money gone than to have arrived to a dead body and stacks of cash. Herc’s not disappointed with you. I’m not disappointed with you. I love you.”

John glances at him quickly, face the picture of vulnerable hope, and that Alex can work with. Alex’s hand slides up to cradle John’s face. “ _I love you_ ,” he repeats because John’s never allowed to be unsure about that.

Alex has never been more sure.

There are very few people who could drag him out of a solid knowledge coma at two in the morning with no questions needed and all three of them are here and he loves all three of them.

But this one right here is a special kind of love because John looks like he’s been given the most precious of gifts and he whispers, “I love you too,” like it’s a taste he’s never let cross his lips before, but one he’s finding pleasurable.

John’s lips are chilly on Alex’s, but he can fix that. A hand winds its way into Alex’s hair and he does likewise with John’s tamed curls, wanting to pull John as close as possible. He wants to take all those doubts and throw them away and never let John feel for even a moment anything other than completely loved. His heart is pounding and he can feel John’s doing the same and they’re beating right in time, just like they should be because this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Oh for the love of God…”

A blush sears across John’s face and it’s so adorable that Alex has to turn to see what caused it. He finds the female paramedic from earlier standing hand on hip with a look so unimpressed it’d turn away Death himself.

She tuts and gestures to John’s injured arm where it’s lying inconspicuously in his lap.

“I thought I told you nothing strenuous?”

“Oh, lady, I’ll show you something strenuous,” Alex promises, but John swears and grabs his hand tugging him away with mumbled apologies.

That’s when Alex really knows he’s a fool in love because all he can think about is how pleasant John’s hand feels in his.

 -

Alex offers up his place, but John surprises him by asking Alex, with no small amount of blushing and eyelash fluttering, to stay at his.

He calls Philip to update him and promptly gets an earful of pissed teenager – _fuck, Alex, there’s texting for a reason! –_ because right, right, Alex forgot that maybe not everyone would be awake at 3:46 in the morning? Maybe there are weirdos who actually sleep at such perfectly productive hours like this but Alex has a hard time understanding how such a strange person can be related to him.

John’s place is small and modest in a way that makes Alex’s two-bedroom thing feel downright luxurious. It’s a one room, open-plan place with a small kitchenette that melds into the bedroom. There’s a small bathroom, but that’s about it. John’s mattress rests pitifully on the floor, without box spring or headboard, and his laptop rests on top of the unmade sheets. Whether it’s an extension of his long work hours (which Alex now understands because who would want to spend their free time here?) or his lack of possessions, John can’t be accused of dirtiness. Messiness maybe, but the kitchen and bathroom both seemed to be swept and wiped down.  

“Err…sorry about…this?” John says hesitantly as he lets Alex in, clearing his throat awkwardly. He drops his keys on the counter and straightens the small pile of books on the end table as if the apartment will perhaps spring into a fully decorated luxury condo if only the book corners are aligned.

It doesn’t, but Alex doesn’t mind. He knows what it is to start at the bottom and climb your way every excruciating inch to the top. But then Alex recalls John’s very well off family and realizes how the humble abode must serve as a vicious reminder of his isolation and rejection.

Not if Alex can help it.

“I love it,” he declares, swinging his arms wide. He strides past John and plops himself onto the admittedly quite comfortable mattress. “Very minimalist,” he pronounces.

“Minimalist, yeah,” John laughs, which makes it a win in Alex’s book, before dropping down next to him. “I hear that’s right next to poor ass twenty-something with no prospects in the IKEA catalog.”

And Alex doesn’t get to respond because John, that sneaky little minx, seals his mouth with a kiss.

Oh God, _yes._

It’s nothing new, but it feels imbued with a new passion in light of their earlier declarations. This means something. Maybe it means they’re a couple or maybe not, they can argue semantics another time, but it definitely feels like something along the lines of commitment.

John leans over him, a wicked smile splitting his savory lips and Alex has never been more ready. John’s left hand moves to stroke Alex’s cheek, but John lets out a sudden hiss of pain, dropping and rolling to his left to avoid landing on Alex.

“Shit,” he mumbles, cradling his right arm to his chest. He shoots one of those damned self-deprecating smiles at Alex and wrinkles his nose in displeasure. “Sorry, this isn’t very sexy.”

Alex begs to differ because John laid out before him, t-shirt riding up a little to show a peek of his hip bone and the thick hair that trails below his naval, will never not be sexy.

Instead of saying that though, Alex just grins and rolls to lean over John, bringing his hand up to stroke along the other man’s cheekbone.

“Why don’t you let me do the work tonight, baby boy,” he suggests softly and for once, John doesn’t fight him. 

The look that crosses John’s face when Alex takes him in his mouth is worth it. His eyes go wide and his mouth slips open obscenely, red beginning to color his cheeks, camouflaging his freckles. John’s head drops heavily onto the pillows as he fights to control the stutter of his hips. His hand flutters around Alex’s head, alternating between grasping onto his hair and stroking along his cheek.

John is not normally one to content himself with receiving ministrations. It’s always a give and take, an interaction of pleasure. Alex suspects it’s only due to sheer exhaustion that John allows himself to be tended to so, content for once to be a sole recipient.

Alex is more than happy to take himself in hand as he continues, stroking his tongue along the length then playing with the slit, eliciting a swear and hip spasm from John. He uses his free hand to tease John’s balls and palm at the places his mouth doesn’t reach. He finds himself hard nearly as fast as John does and he knows they’re not going to last.

Which is fine, frankly, because they’re both exhausted – it’s nearing four in the morning – and this is for release rather than endurance of pleasure.

He pulls free for just a moment, taking enjoyment in how fast John’s head pops up to see why the wet heat stopped, and says, “I’m very glad you came away from tonight relatively okay,” because this night could have gone so much worse and he’s never been more glad to have the beauty that is John Laurens splayed out before him. Also because he’s a little shit and he savors the way John’s eyes bugout in disbelief and he trembles from pulling back from the very edge at the last second.

“Right now, Alex? The fuck? Jesus.” Alex opens his mouth to retort, but John shakes his head and makes a vague gesture towards his hardness. “Talk less, suck more.”

So Alex does.

 -

“Tell me about growing up in South Carolina?” Alex asks afterwards as John lies comfortably on his chest, putting his head in perfect petting position. He’ll never get tired of the way the wavy curls slip through his fingers, tantalizingly soft and fluffy.

John sighs and Alex wonders for a moment if he was close to sleep. John has to be at the police station in a few short hours to give his statement, but Alex can’t resist taking advantage of their relaxed state. It’s a break of their pattern, asking for personal details not freely offered, and he knows John’s explicitly told him to not ask after his family. Still, he’s never felt quite as close before. This wasn’t a passionate burst of energy, this was something more intimate, an ‘I’m glad you’re still here’ gesture. That was Alex’s intention anyway. The spark of fear through his chest, the way his breath arrested for a moment as he took in the sight of John in the ambulance – he couldn’t untangle himself from John now even if he wanted to. And if they were going to go forward and admit something akin to a relationship, then he wants to know everything there is to know about John Laurens.

“It wasn’t what you’re picturing. It wasn’t that bad, especially when I was a kid. It was actually pretty good back in those days.”

Alex only nods, continuing to stroke John’s hair, fearful of interrupting and making John think twice about speaking so openly.

“We had a big house, not a mansion or anything, but a big piece of property. There were huge fields that I used to run through – I did cross country back then. Sometimes Henry Jr – that’s my brother – would come find me and time my runs. And my mom, she was wonderful. She taught me to draw and I used to go sit out in the field and draw whatever I could find, flowers, frogs, anything.”

“Turtles.”

“Turtles,” John agrees fondly. “And I know you probably think of my dad as some kind of tyrannical asshole, but it was never quite like that. He never used to bring his work home, like we didn’t talk about it. I’d find out later from a friend or from the news what he was working on, but it was something that always went unspoken in our household. There were subtle things here and there that bother me now, but at the time, I really didn’t think much on it. I didn’t have a mind for politics, I didn’t consider if I even had an opinion, let alone what it was.”

“Surely you thought on some level-”

“No, Alex,” John says, and Alex can tell from the set look John shoots him that he’s not to interrupt or impose himself into John’s memories. Fair enough. It took Alex himself quite a while to realize that not everyone felt the same as he did. That the “wrong” side still thought they were right. That some people were genuinely uninterested. Even Philip joined student activist clubs in high school, though he was far less outspoken then Alex. With Philip someone had to ask or insinuate something to get a response whereas Alex was more than willing to blurt out his opinions to anyone who so much as blinked at him.

To not be involved and aware of politics at a young age was not a privilege Alex had. But John did and Alex can’t blame him for extending his years of blissful ignorance as long as he could.

“Then I dated this girl Martha Manning. And she was a real nice girl, she tried so hard to make our relationship work. I used to feel awful because she was tripping over herself to be the best girlfriend possible and I was just not interested at all.  My mom died a few months into our relationship and I used that as an excuse to let her down easy.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers, but John’s gaze is lost in another day and another place, somewhere lonely and sad. Alex knows that place.

“I started thinking about boys after that and I dated someone for a while, a guy, but my dad caught us kissing one day and he raised hell. He didn’t hit me or anything,” John quickly assures as Alex’s eyes go wide.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt,” John agrees, a triumph in and of itself for Alex. “The guy left me pretty quick after that, he wasn’t the sort to do anything risky and it wasn’t fair of me to use him as a tool against my dad anyway.”

Anyone who would abandon their boyfriend struggling with a homophobic father was a coward and a wimp in Alex’s book and he can’t help but think _I wouldn’t have left you_. But he knows John will only tolerate so many objections so he stamps down his anger and tries to listen quietly.

“After that, he started talking about his work more, like a deliberate challenge, you know? And all those subtle hints here and there? I started waiting for them, letting no comment slip by, no matter how slight. There was stuff I’d never even thought about before, but whatever he said, I’d defend the opposite to the death no matter how stupid. One time we got into a full blown screaming match over whether bicycles should ride on the sidewalk or the road.”

“You sound like me,” Alex laughs, but the picture of a teenaged John, alone and so full of anger and pain that he’d tear anything apart like a Pitbull – it wasn’t a pretty picture. It didn’t match the friendly, if sarcastic, bartender he’d come to know and love. But the path to the present was rarely smooth.

“It got so bad. It was ridiculous. The kids, my siblings, they were dead afraid to speak at dinner. Everyone would just sit in silence until my dad or I would finally say something to bait the other and that was the end of anything peaceful. Frankly, the only thing my dad and I ever agreed upon was that I needed to leave after graduation. I’m surprised I lasted that long, I was so tense and wound up all the time.”

“Do you miss them?”

He thinks of Pip, face full of grief and fear, at their mother’s funeral. He was wearing a suit that fit terribly because they’d bought it at Goodwill a few days prior. He couldn’t fathom walking away from his brother then, when the future unfolded before them like a foggy horizon. Any burden that came with obtaining custody of his brother was one Alex would gladly carry tenfold to keep that kid in his life. He doesn’t know if he sees courage or shame in John’s actions, leaving those kids with a miserable old man.

“Every day,” John answers “Henry Jr. and I were always particularly close. And Martha, she wasn’t afraid to tell it like it was. Even James and Mary – I don’t know sometimes it just strikes me that they’re not in my life anymore. We were never particularly close but I was the oldest, you know, and I always felt responsible for them. I was just used to them being there, floating in the background, I don’t know. I regret leaving them, but I don’t regret leaving and I can’t see how it could have happened any other way.”

“Maybe you can reach out to them someday. I bet they miss you too. How could they not, you being as fantastic as you are.” John rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk up slightly so: a win. “Seriously, though. I bet you’d be surprised.”

“Maybe,” John concedes. He stretches for a moment, signaling the end of the discussion, before resettling on Alex. “Maybe.”

Good enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, my lovelies, it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.

At first, Alex thinks everything is okay.

Hercules offers John time off or a few weeks of reduced hours. John takes neither and continues to work his full forty-five hours a week. Alex doesn’t blame him, it doesn’t raise any red flags. Alex would do the same thing.

“Shit,” John snarls as a glass slips from his fingers and explodes across the floor in a winking rain.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hercules calls good-naturedly, bringing over a broom and dust bin. It’s a Monday afternoon, business about as slow as it ever gets, so the smashing noise gets barely a cursory glance from the few other patrons.

“Y’all right?” Herc asks as John empties the bin into a trashcan. There’s tension in every line of his body, squaring his jaw and hunching his shoulders, and it’s the first warning sign Alex notices.

“Fine,” he mumbles and Alex says nothing even though he sees. Alex knows just how temperamental John can be when it comes to offered help.

But Alex sees the way his injured arm is trembling. The stitches are gone and the scratches are mostly healed, glossed over with shiny new red skin, but just as the paramedic had warned John, his fine motor control was off. A temporary condition, she’d assured him, but a frustrating one.

Alex thinks back to John’s guilt that night, deep-seated and all-consuming in its quiet intensity. But Alex, fresh off of his own and Hercules’ guilt trip, had brushed it off with jokes and good-nature.

John looks at his own traitorous arm as if he’d like nothing more than to rip it off and fling it as far away as possible. And Alex thinks maybe John isn’t as over it as he’d thought.

 -

“Frankly, he’s an inconsiderate dickhead who waves that aromatic crap around just to distract me.”

“Yes, Alexander, I’m sure Thomas brings mac ‘n cheese to class just to distract you. It’s all a part of his devious plans to sabotage your grades with pasta goodness,” Lafayette says, eyes all but glued to the ceiling from too frequent eye rolling.

“It’s disgusting. He eats like a warthog. And why can’t he eat before class? Or after? Who even eats mac ‘n cheese past the age of five?” Alex continues his barrage, letting the words flow out absentmindedly. Degrading Thomas is easy, something he can do with half a brain and his eyes fixed firmly elsewhere. Which they are. On John. Who’s standing opposite them, wiping down a glass, as per usual. What’s unusual is the listless stare at the bar and the way he’s entirely unengaged from Alex’s ridiculous tirade.

He’s over selling his annoyance, puffing his frustrations up to ludicrous proportions, but it’s failing to get so much as a blink out of John, which is worrying him. This passivity is new-founded, beginning at first as distracted glances and ill-timed responses but morphing into this full on dissociation.

As if Alex holds no importance to him anymore.

“Many adults love mac ‘n cheese, Alexander. You’re being ridiculous. Besides Thomas makes excellent cheesy sauce.”

Alex blinks, startled out of his distraction, and levels an incredulous stare at Lafayette.

“You’ve…you’ve _eaten_ Thomas’ mac ‘n cheese?”

Lafayette – the wanton traitor – has the gall to shrug. “I wished only to sample. Cheese is very important to French cuisine and-”

“Unbelievable!” Alex shouts, smacking his hand on the table and startling their bereft bartender. “You’ve sampled tainted goods! You’ve sullied your good name! You,” he jabs a finger into Lafayette’s chest, earning him an unimpressed eyebrow raise in return, “have gone dark side. And you know what they say about the dark side.”

“They have cookies.” Lafayette recites confidently.

“What? No, fucking hell, Laf, why are you so weird? They say you don’t come back. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to ask that question, Alex,” Hercules warns, appearing next to John, and bringing their fight to a halting stop.

Alex opens his mouth to make a wise crack, but instead John asks flatly, “Can I take my break now?” Any traces of Alex's good-spirited annoyance fades quickly.

Alex’s surprise is mirrored back at him in the taken aback look on Hercules’ face. Next to Alex, Lafayette has gone very still. The air is frozen, hovering in suspended disbelief and letting Hercules’ answer hang as a Schrödinger’s cat until he’s forced to acknowledge the unusual request.

 _But I’m here,_ Alex wants to protest. He doesn’t have as much time to stop by due to midterms, but he spends his every free, waking moment here, watching and noting and trying to bring John back to him.

“Sure, if you want,” Hercules grants with a shrug. John nods and disappears before Alex can so much as blink.

Alex watches his retreating form. John rubs absentmindedly at his arm as he goes, undoubtedly trying to curry relief from the stiff extremity. Even after John disappears into the back, Alex’s eyes remain stuck. John had walked away. From him. From them.

It’s not looking good.

“You should talk to him _, mon ami,”_ Lafayette encourages, squeezing Alex’s shoulder with his surprisingly strong, nimble hand.

“I don’t know what to say,” he offers quietly, hating how the defeated admission leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I don’t know what to do,” Hercules echoes. “Sometimes he’s fine…he’s not doing _badly_ , per say. He’s just quiet. Withdrawn.” Hercules wrings a bar rag in his hands like a fretful mother. “I feel so bad. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh, _mon amour_ ,” Lafayette soothes, moving his hand to rest on top of Hercules’ fidgeting ones, “you can’t blame yourself.”

Alex stares for a minute, having forgotten in the rush of drama. He never did ask how their date went, so callously ruined as it was by the robbery. But he can see the devotion there, somehow connecting two very different people in an inseparable helix.

It’s a role reversal to see the down-to-earth Hercules consumed by specious emotions while Lafayette, ever the drama queen, tuts and soothes affectionately.

The sight makes something painful twist in his chest. Just a few weeks ago, he would have said he and John were headed somewhere similar, that they two had become somehow inseparable. Life without John had already become unthinkable.

And yet…here they are. John tucked away somewhere unreachable to Alex, leaving him alone and adrift. His vision goes blurry, the crisp edges of door through which John disappeared going fuzzy and indistinct. He doesn’t know if he should push or wait, if John will come back of his own violation or not. Everything feels too uncertain, leaving Alex with only one clear thought: that he doesn’t want John to slip away. But whether Alex will have any say in that is still up in the air.

“I gotta…I gotta…go,” he murmurs, detached. If Lafayette or Hercules protest at all, Alex doesn’t hear it. He slides to his feet, which only barely hold him, and, dragging his watery gaze to the floor, pads to the exit.

It takes him a moment to notice the rain, and when he does it’s a shock to the system. He looks up at the overcast sky in disbelief and is further startled when drops, big fat ones, land in his open mouth and curious eyes.

His own helplessness tethers him to the spot. He could make a run for his car. He could retreat back into the warmth of the bar. The decision feels overwhelming, even as the rain pounds further anxiety into his frame. He can’t stay, but he can’t decide what to do, where to go. Tremors began to wrack his form, a combination of fear and chilliness. Just as he faces an unanswerable split in the road in regards to John, he faces yet another one with his own traitorous body. It’s maddening, yet he can’t seem to pin down what to do.

Thick tears of frustration well up, but Alex rubs aggressively at his eyes, refusing to let them betray him as well.

“Alex?”

He turns to find John staring at him curiously. Between his fingers a joint is sizzling out in the rain and Alex can tell from John’s lack of jacket that he wasn’t planning on going past the overhang over the alleyway door. Instead black stains crop up across his grey t-shirt, turning it into a emo polka-dot pattern. Strads of his hair hang low as they’re pulled upon by thick droplets on their journey to the ground. It’s not so fine a rain as to create a hazy mist, so John’s form is distinct, even from ten feet away. He seems entirely unperturbed by the angry sky tears, which seems unfeasible to Alex, whose entire body is gripped by indecisive tension, the picture of perturbation.

“Are you okay?” John asks, lips seeming to form the words in slow motion. They’re distant to Alex’s ears, as if someone from another lifetime was asking. It’s only as John’s eyebrows begin to draw down in worry that Alex realizes he’s just staring, unable to speak, unable to reach out.

Instead, John comes to him, grabbing ahold of Alex’s shoulder and ducking slightly to make direct eye contact. “Alex?”

“I don’t…storms…rain,” he says. Which is, yeah, not exactly a complete sentence. But it’s something.

“I remember. Here, come here.” His words unstick Alex and John steers his pliant body down the alley and under the overhang at the employee’s entrance. During work John typically keeps a rag hooked through a belt loop in case of errant spills or sticky fingers and he removes it to gently pat Alex’s face clean and mop up the puddle forming along the neckline of his shirt from his dripping hair.

“Are you okay? Do you need to talk?” John asks as he absentmindedly tucks an errant strand of Alex’s hair behind his ear as though he towels off drenched strays for a hobby.

“I…I’m okay?” he says. It’s true enough. The anxiety is fading, leaving a hollow chasm of numbness in its wake. Mostly he’s cold and tired and wants to be home. He wants someone to take care of him, even though that feels unfair and guilt lodges in his chest because he’s supposed to be taking care of John, not the other way around.

“Do you want me to smuggle you in the back way?”

Alex stares at the unassuming door with its flaking green paint. The bar seems infinitely loud and clamorous now from the discreet isolation of a rain drenched alleyway. The noise of the rain is singular, almost calming now, while the sound that awaits inside is off-putting and multidirectional, bombarding him from all sides.

He shakes his head and dares to take a step forward, peering up at John hopefully. Alex knows John’s not in a good place right now and he knows he could be asking too much.

But John doesn’t hesitate as he pulls Alex into a tight embrace, wrapping him in street-wise strength and fierce protection. Alex sinks into it, finding himself all but hanging from his grip on John’s back. John gathers him up more securely and lets one hand massage Alex’s shoulders, toying with the ends of his hair.

“ _I missed you,”_ Alex breathes, pressing his nose into John’s shirt and letting the smells of alcohol, sweat, and laundry detergent wash over his senses.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers back, clinging on to Alex just as tight, and they both pretend not to hear the way his voice cracks. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There are many ways he could interpret that statement, but instead of taking the time to pick it apart, he plants a kiss on John’s neck. The patter of the rain boxes them in and cuts them off, letting them exist in a moment of suspension, free to be solely with each other. Alex would stay here forever if he could.

John is the first to pull away, framing Alex’s face in one of his hands and looking entirely too miserable for Alex’s liking. _There’s hope for you, even if there’s not for me,_ says his pale eyes, ringed in tired shadows.

“How about dinner on me? Friday? Herc and that Seabury kid can handle it. I’m sure he’ll give me the time off if I asked.”

John makes it sound like Hercules is just a chill boss, one willing to give anyone time off if they ask. He doesn’t seem to understand the worry that underlies it, that Hercules wants John specifically to take this time to recover.

But that’s a problem for another time so Alex just nods.

 -

Alex turns his face up to the caress of the breeze. John is walking by his side and, as of yet, his posture shows no hints of impending moodiness, despite just coming off a six hour work shift. His step is light and his eyes scope the area with relaxed interest. It’s not a far walk from the bar to the restaurant Alex has selected for their date, but it’s a breath of fresh air.

Maybe things are taking a turn for the better, Alex dares to think. Maybe his own rain-induced meltdown had helped John move past whatever kept him tethered to that night of violence and guilt.

As they settle into their seats in the off-beat seafood joint, Alex pointedly doesn’t ask about work. Instead he waits patiently, intentionally keeping his face open and inviting, until John asks about class. He offers a short description of the day and his unexciting exploits, but as soon as it feels sufficient, he asks, “Have you had a chance to do any drawing lately?”

John blinks, startled, and seems to do a mental scan for thoughts or activities relating to ‘drawing’.  “I...I...no, not really. I’ve been busy. With work?”

“Are you still going to sign up for classes this summer at the Community College?”

“Yeah, maybe. We’ll see. Work-”

“Forget work. You’re not planning on working there forever are you?” Alex laughs.

Tentatively, and with no small amount of prodding from Alex, John begins to lay out potential plans, everything from art classes to science labs. He has an insurance policy from his mom, but he’s careful to only spend the money on college expenses. No charity cases here.

Internally, Alex smiles in satisfaction. Somewhere along the line, and without Alex noticing, John had intertwined himself so completely with the bar, he’d become blind to the rest of the world. Alex is no better, as the bar and John are entangled in his mind. They’re one and the same, a place of warmth and comfort. Friendship and love.

But John is more than the bar. John had a life before the bar, just as Alex did, and he has a future before him that can be entirely separate if John will just reach for it. He has potential. And as John’s voice begins to grow in speed and passion as he discusses everything from traveling to taking a pottery class (“because why not?”), Alex sees as John subconsciously detaches himself and his existence from working at the bar. He’s a person. With interests. With passions. Alex will prove this to him as many times as needed and push him along when John stagnates too long.

By the time dinner is done, fanciful thoughts of all the potentials held within their future together have consumed Alex. His heart and mind soar and the world seems to unfold before them. They stumble back to the bar in fits of giggles and kisses and John only barely manages to drive them to his apartment without crashing.

Alex doesn’t let John get more than two steps into the apartment before Alex’s mouth is on his, needy and urgent. He backs John up against a wall and relishes in the small moans he’s garnering.

“Fuck, yes,” John groans as Alex lavishes attention on his exposed neck, undoubtedly leaving a mark.

“Yes fuck,” Alex agrees, reaching down to undue John’s pants. Apparently done with submission, John grabs ahold of Alex’s shoulders and walks him backward, mouths never leaving one another, until he bumps into the little plastic kitchen table. Alex isn’t even sure if it can hold his weight, but John splays him across it without a second thought so he doesn’t worry.

He especially stops worrying when John’s warm mouth encircles his cock, pausing only to lick a stripe along the length. Alex arches off the cold plastic and his mind feels electric.

They’ve only ever had penetrative sex twice and Alex could tell John wasn’t entirely comfortable bottoming, so he didn’t press the issue. Why bother when John’s mouth could do _that_?

“ _Oh god,_ ” Alex moans, flailing one hand until it land’s in John’s curls and he can tangle it in.

John pops off for a second, earning an impatient cry from Alex, and says, “You can call me John.”

“You stopped for that piece of garbage line?” Alex all but snarls but John engulfs him once again in tight, wet heat and Alex has no complaints.

That is until John pulls back just as Alex feels himself circling release. He makes needy noises shamelessly, but John leans over him and invades Alex’s mouth with his tongue, the salty flavor of Alex’s own skin still on John’s lips.

He’s _so close_ , he can feel his blood racing and his body begging for more, just a little more. John, wonderful merciful John, slides a hand down and barely even touches him before Alex’s mind explodes. Pleasure rips through his body, almost painful in its intensity. His hand slides out of John’s hair and latches onto his arm, potentially leaving finger shaped bruises. His clamped hand shakes as he rides out the aftershock and the skin feels cold under his burning hot passion.

John, he thinks, did John…he should offer a mouth, a hand. His thoughts are disconnected and John’s isn’t pushing for anything.

Alex blinks lethargically, trying to bring his mind back and figure out what’s going on. His body objects, it wants to revel in the afterglow longer, let satiation truly sink in, but Alex is beginning to think something is wrong.

(Despite how everything was very very right).

“John?” he mumbles. He stares until the other man’s figure comes into focus, hovering over Alex, seemingly frozen and transfixed on something just to Alex’s right. “You ‘kay?” he manages to ask. He wants to lean up, nuzzle John’s nose and capture his mouth in a kiss, offer return services for that glorious job, but his body is still too plaint, too weak.

It takes Alex a stupidly long time to stop staring at John and follow his line of sight.

Really, he should have expected it.

The scars peek out from under Alex’s now lax grip, peppering his arm with striations of glass ghosts. Without meaning to, Alex lets out a long sigh. Of course. He was a fool to think they were past this.

“John,” he says quietly, reaching out to stroke the other man’s cheek. At Alex’s touch John comes alive, jerking back and stepping a few paces away. His arms wrap around himself defensively and he turns his back to Alex.

“I think maybe you should go,” he offers, voice quiet and painfully neutral.

“John,” he says instead, pulling his pants up and sitting up to lean on the table, “you need to talk about it, deal with it, do whatever.”

“I am dealing with it.” His voice drips with ice and Alex knows it won’t be long before it becomes venom John spews at him.

“Obviously not. Look, just talk to Herc, he doesn’t-”

John whirls around and Alex is startled to see his face is splotchy and his eyes are wet and red, just on the brink of total breakdown. “I know Hercules doesn’t blame me! I know that and all the other crap you’re about to tell me! I fucking know, Alex!”

“Then what’s stopping you?” he demands, ashamed to find his own voice rising to match John’s. _Why can’t you get over this?_ he wants to scream, but stops the words just shy of passing his lips. There’s probing to learn and then there’s probing to wound and one is not as helpful as the other.

“ _I don’t fucking know!”_ John screeches. He turns on his heel and drives his fist into the drywall.

“Oh my god!” Alex’s frustration drains just like that, as he sees the not insignificant dent John’s made. He’s fearful, not for himself, but for the damage John is capable of inflicting upon himself. John’s arm pulls back, but Alex rushes forward and manages to grab onto the appendage like a dangling monkey. “Stop, stop!” he cries, looping his other arm around John’s waist and hoping to imbue John with his own calmness through some sort of bizarre body-to-body osmosis.

After what feels like an eternity John’s arm drops to dangle at his side. He bows his head, resting his forehead against the drywall. Alex suspects, though he can’t tell from where he is, that John is crying, though his body remains still and his face hidden. Alex rests his own forehead in the crook of John’s shoulder.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I know it’s stupid, I get that,” he plows over Alex’s protests, “but I just keep thinking about it. Hercules trusted me and I let some punk get away with the night’s earnings. I had one job and I fucked it up.”

“Your one job is to mix drinks, sweet thing,” Alex says, not unkindly.

John sighs. “If I gave you half of my life savings and said, please keep this safe – wouldn’t you feel guilty if you lost it?”

“You didn’t leave his money on the goddamned bus, John. We’re talking about a physical _assault_ , a _robbery_. That’s what a robbery is: taking things _by force_.”

John pulls out from under him and moves to stand in the middle of the room where he runs his hands through his hair and looks to the ceiling.

“Look,” he says slowly, closing his eyes as if the words are painful to voice. “You’re not…fooling anybody with all that bullshit talk about the future.”

“What?” Alex blurts, surprised at how deeply it hurts. His eyes nearly begin to water and it’s stupid because he’s always been quick to a fight. His pride flies off the handle fast and he normally has no problem following. But it’s not anger rushing through his veins, it’s pain and it’s hurt.

“You’ve got a future, Alex. You’re smart. But let’s be honest, I’m going nowhere fast. And this crap is just another roadblock. You should cut your losses.”

It’s betrayal.

“John-”

“No, seriously. I’m done fighting twice as hard to get half as much. I’m not getting a degree anytime soon taking two classes a year. I’m…I’m stuck, Alex, and you’re not.”

“It doesn’t…it doesn’t matter,” he’s stumbling through his thoughts, mind reeling with how fast everything is falling apart before him. “Whatever you want to do in life, I’ll support that. We can make it work. We’ll-”

“Stop, seriously, stop,” John all but snarls. He begins to pace the small space between the kitchen table and the wall, looking trapped and untamed. “You’re asking too much, Alex. You’re reading too much into this.”

“Into _what_?” he asks, incredulous. How did they get here? What the hell is even happening?

“This!” He gestures between them. “Us. We’re not ‘boyfriends’ or ‘life partners’ or whatever the hell you want to call it. We’re just two guys who like to fuck.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

John stops pacing and sends him a look that borders on pity, of all things. “It’s a good thing, Alex. I’m glad someone like you was my first, but you’re sprinting through the marathon while I’m jogging on the treadmill. We’re not going to the same place.” He sounds calm, rational even, like this is the only logical outcome. Somewhere along the line Alex became the emotional one.

“What…where is this coming from?” His eyes are watering again. “Are we…breaking up?”

“Were we going out? We went on our first actual date two hours ago, Alex.”

“Yeah, but…” How can all those nights at the bar mean nothing? Sure John was working, but Alex had always had a good time. Wasn’t that what dating was? Making the best of what you had? He didn’t mind that they didn’t get to go on conventional dates all the time or that their love burned hot and fast, full of passion instead of romance. And the sex… “Did you say I was your first?” he asks, suddenly noticing what John has snuck in.

“First time, you know,” once more he gestures between them, “bottoming. Doing anal.”

“You didn’t say,” Alex all but cries, as if he’s trying to defend himself. How could John have kept that a secret? Did he think Alex would judge? If he’d only known, he’d have made it more special, gone slower, done something, anything instead of a quick fuck in back room one closing night. _Oh god_. A first time should be caring and slow, filled with laughter and love. Not…not _that._

“I’ve been with girls.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter but Alex feels like a monster, like a pervert.

“Jesus,” Alex moans, moving to drop into the hard plastic chair they’d shoved away from the table in their earlier haste. The stupid thing was ridiculously uncomfortable. It belonged in the backyard of some retired asshole who made his grandkids play bocce with him.

His mind is sluggish suddenly. Instead of bouncing between thoughts rapid fire, it’s wading through mud, trying to figure out which way is up. “What,” he croaks out, but he doesn’t even have an end to the question.

John runs a hand over his face, dragging a few wayward curls with him only for them to bounce merrily back into place. “Look. I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m not trying to…to break up, or whatever. I just need to think. I’m all over the place.”

Ain’t that the truth.

“I’m not mad and I’m not trying to hurt you. My mind is,” he waves vaguely in the air, “a mess. How about I drive you back to your car and we can talk tomorrow? I should have taken the time Hercules offered me. I should have sorted my thoughts out, but I didn’t and now they’re all tangled and I need to get them straightened out before I can tell you what I need. Does that make sense?”

Alex nods, feeling too hollow to speak.

“Okay,” John says, sounding slightly disheartened by Alex’s dejection and continued staring at the carpet. “Come on, then.”

The drive to the bar is silent. The place is closed, but Hercules and the other guy are still there finishing up. Alex’s car is the lone occupant of the customer parking, looking about as marooned as Alex feels.

John catches his arm as Alex slides wordlessly out of the passenger seat. “Alex, this isn’t a bad ending, okay? Just a pause.” Alex nods. “Okay…have a good night then.”

Despite John’s assurances, Alex still feels miserable and drained by the time he parks at his apartment complex and drags his weary body up the stairs. It doesn’t feel like ‘not a bad ending’. It feels exactly like a bad ending. It feels like the worst kind of bad ending: unexpected and one-sided.

What had he done wrong? Where did he slip up?

How could he possibly thought everything was fine mere hours before they careened towards such an explosive end?

“’Lex?” Philip murmurs from the couch, roused from his nap by the sound of the door closing.

Alex makes it a few steps into the living room, standing between the horror movie marathon playing on TV and Philip on the couch, before he crumbles.

Ugly, choking sobs burst out and tears pour like a dam breaking. He hunches in on himself, pressing his arms to his chest.

“What the fuck?” Philip says, fully awake now and scrambling to his feet. He stumbles, feet twisted in the blanket, but manages to grab Alex’s arm and drag him to sit on the couch. Philip wraps an arm around him and whispers, “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Do you want me to pound his face in?”

Alex shakes his head, feeling not unlike a dog just in from the storm. His chest aches as he struggles to breathe. Philip runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s not…not his fault,” he spits out. He aches from John’s verbal blows but he can’t let Philip get a warped picture of the usually pleasant man. The man who Alex thought he loved. The man who Alex thought loved him.

“Not his fault?” Alex can tell from the tone that Philip’s eyebrow is raised and skeptical.

“Everything’s fucked,” Alex offers in appeasement, earning a sympathetic nod from Philip.

“It usually is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :D Pretty please with a cherry on top comment & kudo!
> 
> I'm drowning in end of the semester class work and I don't have the next chapter written, so fingers crossed the next update will still be on time (I'm not opposed to a little bribery/motivation in the comment section!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello mateys here we go again! I think this piece will likely be one more chapter (though it will be dramatic!), but I have several more Ham fics in the work, one of which is already complete and ready for posting shortly, so worry not!

Alex feels like something doing only slightly better than roadkill by the time he wakes up. It takes his confused mind a moment to orient himself. He’s on the couch, still covered by Philip’s blanket, one ungainly hand dangling onto the floor and his neck likely permanently cricked from sleeping on the armrest.

Oh god.

His head aches and his face feels puffy from his extensive crying the night before. It’s worse than a hangover and he didn’t even get the fun part.

With a jolt he realizes there’s someone knocking at the door, likely what awoke him in the first place. For a moment he thinks maybe they’ll just go away, but if they’ve been knocking long enough to wake Alex up and are still waiting…Doesn’t bode well.

“Answer the door, Alex! Someone’s going to call PETA on our asses for leaving that sad puppy out there.”

What?

Also, Philip clearly checked the peep hole, why couldn’t he answer the damn door?

Dragging a hand through the rat’s nest that is his hair, Alex makes his way to the door, which he flings open with little fanfare.

“John?”

Sad puppy indeed.

He looks miserable, eyes big and apologetic. Alex takes a little bit of satisfaction in reading the signs of sleep deprivation and late night ugly crying. At least he wasn’t the only one.

“Have you got your bullshit together?” Philip demands, appearing at Alex’s side. He glares at John, despite being a good six inches shorter, and hovers protectively. He’s got that stubborn set to his jaw that Alex usually reads to mean trouble. Unlike Alex, Philip is freshly showered and dressed, looking entirely too put together for a Saturday morning.

John’s eyes dart between the two brothers in confusion. “Um? I-” Philip doesn’t let him answer.

“Because if you ever make my brother cry like that again I’m going to have to hurt you,” he warns solemnly as though the threat is an unfortunate fact of life. Alex flushes, embarrassed at the devoted display because geez, Pip, he doesn’t need a guard dog, but John nods gravely as though accepting a quest from King Arthur himself.

After staring skeptically for a second, Philip nods, appeased. “Good. Now, what’s in the bag?” Alex’s attention is drawn for the first time to the slightly rumpled paper sack in clutched in John’s hands, one of which, he notes with a wince, is bandaged to hide split knuckles. He wonders if John’s drywall is recovering okay as well.

“Uh,” John stumbles, clearly thrown off by the aggressive interrogation, “donuts? Donuts. They’re donuts.”

Philip plucks the back from John’s lax fingers and peers inside, nodding seriously as he examines the contents. “They are donuts,” he confirms as though receiving some illicit product for a finicky buyer. He looks into John’s bewildered face and concludes, “This one’s a keeper, I think,” before disappearing into the apartment with the bag.

“Uh, what?” John asks. “Should I, uh, come back later?”

It’s appealing for a moment, to send John away and start over entirely when Alex feels more alive. He did nothing but cry last night, he has no great epiphanies or sage words of wisdom to offer. But procrastination is rarely the best path and John already came all the way out here.

“No, uh,” he drags a hand over his face. “Come in. Let me just grab a quick shower and then we’ll talk.”

 -

Alex emerges from his steamy cocoon to the sound of raised voices, aggressive but not angry. He finds his two fools engaged in a deeply heated round of UNO, slapping cards down with lightning speed and scattering crumbs from their half-eaten donuts everywhere.

“Not so fast! Draw four!” Philip shouts, turning John’s hand of two into a hand of six, and the level of vindictive glee in his eyes is frankly a little frightening to Alex. Nonetheless, they appear to be getting along swimmingly, even if they make an odd sight playing UNO at nine in the morning on a Saturday. Alex tries to pretend it doesn’t stir something happy and pleased within him.

“It’s UNO, not Survivor, Pip, calm down.” He feels much more confident, face scrubbed clean of any trace evidence of misery and hair tucked up in a freshly blow-dried bun. He selects a jelly-filled donut and licks a stripe of powdered sugar off the top. “Anyway, John and I need to talk. Can you…you know, go do something?”

“I’m winning,” Philip counters, gesturing to the cards and staring at Alex like he’s an idiot. Alex raises his eyebrows trying to pull his best ‘I’m the adult here’ face.

“You’re a teenager and its Saturday. Go do…whatever teenagers do on Saturdays.” Their stare-off continues for a beat more and Alex starts to wonder if he’s actually going to have to put his feelings on the backburner for a game of UNO of all things, but Philip’s eyes narrow suddenly.

“Fine.” He crams the rest of his donut into his mouth in one bite and reaches out to snatch Alex’s, seemingly unconcerned with the stripe of licked off sugar on top. “But I’m taking this.”

Content with his hostage negotiations, Philip goes to gather his wallet and key and slips out, the sound of the door shutting echoing through the little space. 

The silence that follows is heavy, hanging noticeably between them. It stifles any words that come to Alex’s mind and they sit wordlessly.

“I got half a dozen. Donuts. So there’s more if you want another,” John says, staring at the fridge. Alex sees the sugary concoctions for what they are: an apology, and likely the only one he’ll get. It’s not in John’s nature, nor, really, is it in Alex’s so they’ll have to meet each other half way.

“John.” John flinches as if it had been a scream, not a whisper. His eyes drop to the floor, still stubbornly refusing to look at Alex. “I just want to be on the same page,” Alex says instead of the dozens of accusations that come to mind.

“I don’t know what page I’m on,” John finally admits.

“That’s okay,” he says quickly, “Just talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. I meant what I said last night, about you and me. Wherever you’re going, whatever path you want to take, I’ll go with you.”

“How can you say that?” He asks, not ungently, and finally glances over at Alex. For some reason all Alex can notice is that John’s still holding onto his six cards, as if the game was just paused and any second now they’d all joyfully leap back to life. “You’re smart. You’re going places. Don’t tie yourself down.”

“How can _you_ say _that_?” Alex fires back, wet anger building in his chest anew. “It’s like you don’t even want to try. We’re not…” he flounders for a sufficient mental picture. “We’re not dogs on a leash, tied together and led by whoever pulls the strongest. I do want to go places, but it’s not like I would make any big decisions without talking to you first. We can figure out what we’re willing to give and what we’re not and move forward together.”

Alex has always been led by a singular drive, always charging forward with a burning need to prove himself and shape the world in the image of his mind. It had never been hard to incorporate Philip, to fit his needs in until they made it work for both of them. He can do the same with John. They can take what matters to them and jostle it all until it aligns. If John wants to go to college, if he wants to stay at the bar, if he wants to fly to Timbuktu – they’ll work their plans together.

How can John be ready to give up before they’ve even begun? Can’t he see Alex is willing to give his all to try and make it work?

“I get that you’re willing to try,” John says, as if reading Alex’s mind. And if he gets that, why is this so hard? Alex doesn’t understand what the major hold up is. Nothing is guaranteed in life, Alex knows that better than most, and if trying is all you can do, why isn’t that enough for John? “But I think you should evaluate why and if it’s worth it. I mean,” John rubs nervously at the back of his neck, making his poofy ponytail bounce, “this is me we’re talking about.”

“That’s what this is about? Seriously?” He’s incredulous, delirious. It’s not his devotion John doubts, it’s whether John is worthy of such devotion. And that is so much simpler than the verbal loops they’ve been running around each other, circling so much that they’ve missed hitting the point.

John shoots him a look and, okay, yeah Alex didn’t mean to trivialize, but still. He clamors out of his seat and crouches in front of John. He takes John’s fidgeting hands in both of his, not even thinking about the uneven, scarred texture on the edge of one, and stares up into his eyes. The same eyes that had captured him on day one, bright moons settled amongst the dozens of constellations that unfold across his cheeks and nose. “John…Come on. You’ve got to stop this. You deserve to be happy and I deserve to be happy and we make each other happy. Why isn’t that enough? Whatever you are, whatever mixture of virtues and flaws you are, it’s a mixture that I love. It’s that simple. I love you.”

John’s eyes are wide and Alex wants to cry because no one should look that amazed to have someone love them. Alex brings their bundle of hands to his lips and seals it all with kiss.

“Alex…” his voice is trembling, just like the tears building in his eyes. His face is apologetic, even if the words are slipping on his tongue, just out of reach.

Hands on John’s thighs, Alex leans forward. “You’re such a goof, John Laurens.”

Nothing, not even the powdered sugar from the donut, is as sweet as the press of John’s mouth on his.

 -

“You should have told me you’d never, you know, bottomed before. I would have, I don’t know, gone slower or something.”

“It doesn’t matter,” John shrugs, preoccupied with whatever he’s sketching, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in his concentration. Alex has work in an hour and John has work in two so they’re sitting at the little patio out front of Alex’s apartment complex as a break from the oppressive kitchen and their heavy conversations. It’s an unusually warm day for late October so they thought they’d take advantage of it while it lasts. Alex has some homework spread out before him, marked up with an intricate code of highlighting and underlining, but he can’t focus yet.

“It matters to me,” he insists, bordering on petulant. It’s not that John didn’t tell him so much as why John didn’t tell him. “Were you embarrassed?” he asks.

With a sigh, John puts his pencil down, resigned to the conversation, and says, “No. Just felt like an odd time to bring it up. And then afterwards, why bother? At the time I thought it was just sex. I didn’t think it was anything long-term.”

“Oh,” Alex says, trying and failing not to sound disappointed, because he knew at first sight John was someone he could spend the rest of his life loving.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alex says, and he means it. “It’s who you are and I get that.” It’s a harsh reality, but an important one because where ever they started, they’ve somehow arrived at the same place. The only way is forward and it’s hard to do that dragging past hurts along behind.

John stares, seemingly surprised Alex is going to make it that simple, but why bother regretting the past? Their relationship had started fast and casual but Alex is coming to realize that keeping things casual is an insanely difficult way of building a relationship. So he takes the time to learn what he didn’t before because he doesn’t want this to be a casual relationship. They’re in too deep for that and that means seeing each other’s ugly sides and learning to work with that.

Satisfied, Alex returns to his homework.

 -

Philip isn’t home when Alex returns after work. He settles himself at the kitchen table for a change of scenery and spreads his work around him. He’d been sent home with a coworker’s article, which he was supposed to edit. Editing, he’d been repeatedly reminded, means fact-checking and looking for spelling and grammar errors. It did not under any circumstance involve rewriting, rewording or otherwise turning Burr’s piece into his own. It’s not like Alex could turn the mediocre fluff piece into something actually gripping and exciting. He’s cool with it. Really.

It’s not his fault Burr’s writing is just as quiet and dismissible as the man himself.

He’s just finishing a comment about egregious being a contranym and Burr’s need to use more specific wording when his brother returns home.

“Pip!” Alex calls out as his brother bypasses the kitchen entirely in a beeline for his bedroom. With apparent reluctance, Philip backtracks and stands in the doorway, looking sallow from the front-lit lighting. Alex feels a flash of guilt for unceremoniously booting his younger sibling out earlier that morning, but he hadn’t known John would show up.

Philip keeps his head angled down the hall like his room might disappear if he doesn’t keep it in sight and his fingers tap out an uneven beat on his thigh.

“Is everything okay?” Alex asks, frown building on his face as the first stirrings of anxiety build in his chest. It’s not like his brother to be so high strung and he thinks back to that night when Alex found him in the tub.

Philip’s nervous fingers halt for a second and he flicks his head to stare at Alex. He looks tired, eyes red and skin pale. He stares at Alex for a beat before quickly declaring, “You worry too much,” and disappearing.

And that…is not a phrase Alex had ever heard before his brother. At least not in that voice. Philip was tolerant, indulgent even when it came to Alex’s never-ending anxiety, but that? It wasn’t a fond annoyance in his voice, it was irritation. It was back off, go away, stop.

It was unnerving.

Alex debates going after, even rises to his feet to do exactly that, but stops himself. His presence is clearly unwanted and forcing anything is only going to set them back.

Instead he stares moodily at the empty doorway, absently drawing circles on the back of Burr’s article.

 -

Alex doesn’t get a chance to see John for a few days, but John shoots him a small, hopeful smile when Alex plops down across from him and that eases the many anxieties building in his chest from their brief lack of contact.

“Teenagers are like that,” John says with a shrug, wiping down a glass with absentminded ease.

“Not Philip,” Alex argues, but it sounds weak even to his ears. Isn’t that what every parent says? My kids was a good kid until they weren’t a good kid.

“Alex,” John says seriously, reaching across the bar to settle Alex’s incessantly tapping fingers. It’s early, early enough the bar hasn’t technically opened yet, but Alex had knocked at the backdoor until a very confused Sam had opened it and let him in at John’s insistence. Thursdays are Alex’s only morning off from both work and school and he isn’t about to waste it somewhere else.

He can’t shake the idea that something is wrong but he doesn’t know where objective worry bleeds into his particular brand of paranoia.

“There’s not a kid on this earth that more surely knows they’re loved than Philip. He knows you’re there if he needs you. Just take a step back and let him come to you.”

“Yeah,” Alex says halfheartedly, scratching at the bar with his nail until John whacks his hand with a towel.

“Seriously, Alex. It’ll be okay. He’ll come to you if he needs you.”

Alex nods, unsatisfied, and absentmindedly draws swoops and swirls on the bar with his finger while John and Sam take down the rest of the stools and chairs from on top of tables. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Philip to come to him, it’s that he’s not sure if he’s made himself available enough. Between school and work and John…he’s home less than ever. He’s not naïve, he knows teenagers are prone to change, particularly in the attitude department. And yet his every cell is resistant to such change. He wants to stand in the way and say ‘no, stop, make things like they used to be’ even as he knows it’s impossible. Change is good, he tries to tell himself, but it feels more like distance from the only family he’s got left.

“Is he always this depressing?” Sam asks curiously, a little sneer of distaste on his thin lips. Alex glances up to glare at him, lips pulled back in a snarl, retort already building, but John sighs in annoyance and shoos the kid into the backroom to do inventory.

“I don’t like that kid,” Alex says blandly, turning his gaze back to the supremely interesting bar top. John chuckles and yeah, Alex hasn’t exactly kept his dislike for the Seabury kid quiet. John settles across from Alex, stocking up the shelves under the bar in a familiar pattern. Alex can’t stop thinking about the fidgety way Philip’s fingers tapped on his leg, a nervous tic Alex has never seen before. He can’t tell what is a true memory versus a memory warped and bloated by his own paranoia. It probably really didn’t look as bad as he’s remembering it – in his memory Philip looks like a stricken cancer patient, eyes twitching with insanity and skeletal fingers one aggressive tap from falling off – but he can’t deny the immediate gut reaction he had, the instinctive way his hairs pricked up. Like all orphans with a sibling to look out for, he’s learned to trust those reactions.

“Alex?” John asks after a beat and the small hint of hesitation in his voice makes Alex look up. John’s eyes look more green than hazel in the late morning light filtering in through the tinted windows. He looks uncharacteristically shy, uncertainty evident in the way his eyes flick to the ground repeatedly.

“John?” he asks nervously. John can’t already be having second thoughts right? Not after barely an hour of being in each other’s presence? Alex was really sure they got somewhere good on Saturday…”What is it?”

“I thought maybe…” John’s eyes, bright and wide, meet his for a moment before glancing back down. A faint tint of pink spreads across his cheeks. “Maybe you’d want to stay at my place on Friday?”

“What?” Why would such a simple request merit such hesitancy? Suspicion wells up in Alex. A surprise? Another long talk of insecurities?

“You know, because…because there’s supposed to be a thunder storm on Friday?”

Alex blinks at him a few times, unable to unstick his mouth as he watches John stare abashedly at him through his thick lashes. He’s the picture of shyness, and fondness catches in Alex’s throat and squeezes his chest. This is for him, all of John is Alex’s, and he’s never wanted to stake a claim so strongly before because the world doesn’t deserve this gentleness, let alone Alex.

His worries about Philip fade to the background as he comes fully into the present moment, fixed under John’s waiting eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, where to start to show how much he appreciates John’s simple consideration. The fact that he not only remembers Alex’s dysfunctional relationship with bad weather, but he thinks of it unprompted, recognizing threats even before Alex has.

It’s too much. This Carolinian bartender with explosive freckles and stupidly long eyelashes is going to be the death of him.

“That would be nice,” Alex offers, mirroring John’s hopeful shyness in his own softened voice. He hopes his eyes convey everything he means, the gratefulness, the love.

A small, pleased smile slides onto John’s face, making him look not unlike a young boy who convinced a busy dad to play a game of catch. “Cool,” he says, nonchalant, “That’s…yeah, that’s cool.”

“Yeah, it is,” Alex says, unable to stop a foolish grin from spreading across his face because, Jesus, they sound like middle schoolers making a date to get ice cream, but John’s so pleased with himself and frankly Alex is pleasantly happy with him too, so why not. It’s such a silly thing, to be so happy at the knowledge that John thinks about him when Alex isn’t there, but sometimes a little reassurance isn’t a bad thing.

He feels weirdly elated, like they’d passed some unknown test, but it’s the closest thing they’ve come to a second date and it feels almost domestic at that. All good signs, Alex thinks.

 -

Hercules shows up not long after, uncharacteristically late and ruffled. Alex can’t help but wonder if he spent the night at Lafayette’s place.

There was a reason Alex and Lafayette never roomed together despite being such good friends and it definitely had something (everything) to do with the Frenchman’s tendency to get up for the gym at nearly five in the morning every morning, which jived poorly with Alex’s preference to maximize his productivity between the hours of two and four in the morning. Suffice to say, it was few miserable weeks on both ends before they decided they were best as friends from another house. To make matters worse, Lafayette went straight to work afterwards and worked until the typical five pm, meaning Hercules’ late night shifts limited their overlap.

It’s hard to have a relationship when you never see the person.

Alex tuts sympathetically as Hercules aggressively switches the CLOSED sign to OPEN and sulks over.

John wisely keeps his mouth shut, averting his eyes to the bar top he seems to never stop wiping (at this point Alex is surprised John hasn’t worn down the shellac), but Alex has always been a fool and right now he’s a fool in love, so he can’t help but rib the other man. “Trouble in paradise?”

Hercules growls, more at the world than Alex, before mumbling, “I’ve never met a man who obsesses over the proper eight hours of sleep so much. I don’t know when we’ll ever have an actual night together.”

“You could take a night off?” John offers quietly, seemingly unsure if offering a suggestion is worth drawing Hercules’ attention. When Hercules does nothing but stare blankly at him, John seems to gain a little steam, nodding as he says, “Tonight, even.”

“Uh-uh, I’m scheduled to seven and I’m out at seven,” Sam adds from across the empty room.

Hercules continues to stare at John, just daring him to suggest it, and John, bless his balls, does. “I could close alone?”

“No,” Hercules and Alex say simultaneously, which earns a double shot of John Laurens exasperation.

“Guys. C’mon. For one, it’s a Thursday, and two, the odds of it happening again are astronomical. I’m fine. I was fine. I’ll be fine. Lots of fineness all around,” he says, gesturing widely at the apparently invisible fineness just floating around waiting to land on unsuspecting, un-fine people.

“No.” Hercules shakes his head, moving behind John to unlock and reset the cash register for the day. “I appreciate it, man, but I can’t do that. Not for a date. We’ll be fine.”

Alex can’t help but think Lafayette would agree (their mutual French friend can be stuffy and traditional when it comes to romance, but he’d always but the safety of their friends first). He doesn’t tell John as much, choosing instead to continue frowning at John’s ‘help me out here’ looks.

He doesn’t doubt John’s capabilities as a person or a bartender. But a person can only do so much and, as far as Alex is concerned, they got lucky last time. There was a reason Hercules instigated a no one-man closes rule in the first place. John didn’t seem to mind the long open to close shifts, from 10:30 in the morning to 12:30 at night on a typical day (though Hercules prevented John from working them more than once a week), but Alex particularly didn’t like the idea of John being alone after such a long and tiring day.

“You guys deserve at least one night. You close almost every night, man-”

“I’m the owner-”

“What are the odds of something happening the one night you take off? A Thursday no less.”

“They’re probably the same as the odds last time!” Hercules cries, his unusually raised voice demonstrating just how wound he was.

“John, let it go,” Alex suggests, but instead John whips around to point at Alex, face alight with apparent brilliance.

“Alex!”

“That’s me,” Alex agrees, as John continues to point like a toddler mastering nouns.

“No, Alex can close with me!”

“He doesn’t work here,” Hercules says, as Alex agrees in unison, “I don’t work here.”

John’s arms drop dramatically to his side, eyes rolling so far back in his head Alex is surprised they don’t get stuck. “No! I mean, like, he can stay with me? You know, so I’m not alone?”

He thinks about it for a second and takes the time to mentally acknowledge that yes, he will be awake that late, and no, he doesn’t have an early shift or class tomorrow.

“Sure, why not,” he agrees easily, feeling a good deal better already about John closing. It’ll be reminiscent of that night when they first met and an opportunity for the free-flowing conversations late night darkness always seems to spur, plus Alex will be here if anything happens. (It doesn’t seem worth mentioning that Alex is pretty sure John stands a way better chance at actually fending anyone off if necessary. It’s all about peace of mind, right?)

“I guess…” Hercules says, rubbing a hand unsurely along the back of his neck. Which, honestly, is silly, because it’s not like Alex hasn’t stayed past closed loads of time to chat with John while Hercules finished up paperwork in the back room.

But even as the matter is verbally settled, Alex can see it’s not mentally settled for Hercules. By the time Alex sets off for class an hour or two later, Hercules is still shooting uncertain glances their way. Perhaps John wasn’t the only one struggling to move on, Alex realizes, as he watches the guilt simmer in flashes of blood and police lights.

 -

Nonetheless Hercules acquiesces reluctantly, and with no small amount of grumbling, when Alex shows up at ten, he heads out after reassuring John twice that he would have his cell nearby and to not hesitate, _not even a little_ , should he need something.

Thirty minutes before last call, the solitary remaining patron makes his way out into the dark night, and Alex and John are alone.

“So,” Alex offers as soon as the guy disappears out the door, eyes cutting back to John sharply.

“So,” John agrees and it turns out to be a great thing no one else stops in for the night because John would do a piss poor job serving customers while Alex is crouched behind the bar, John’s dick in his mouth and John’s hands in his hair.

Yes, Alex thinks as John is bent nearly in double over him, leaning on the bar while his chest heaves as he attempts to clean himself up with a paper towel, Alex has definitely become a supporter of Hercules taking many, many closings off.

It’s all in the name of love, really. Best interest of everyone and all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last week of classes before finals and I have literally not one word of the next chapter written, so fingers crossed that the next update will be on schedule!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, they 100% keep me going and make my day! Please keep them coming :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello, my lovelies! Sorry about the delay. But here we are! The final chapter!
> 
> First off, I want to say THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH for your wonderful responses to this piece. You've blown me away! I have several other Hamilton fics already in the works so, if you're interested, pop over to my profile and subscribe!
> 
> Second off, I'll add more about this in the end note, but please keep in mind, that while I've done research and everything John says in this chapter is medically true, this is not the right way to handle the situation. That's all I'll say for now ;)
> 
> Lastly, THANKS & LOVE to my wonderful Jessie for providing me with endless support for this (and all my writing)! Merci, mon lapin.

Life, Alex has learned, tends to unravel quickly. As he carefully pulls the fraying ropes of his relationship with John back together, others elsewhere began to slip free.

He thinks this is what it must be like to be a normal teenager (Alex never was, not as a single parent home turned to a no-parent home) as he and John giggle furiously, trying to sneak into Alex’s apartment without waking his brother.

John had offered his place up, but Alex thought it’d be better for the sake of getting himself to work on time the following morning to just stay at his. Philip would surely be asleep, there was no one to bear witness to a little bit of naughtiness.

John owes him, after all, for that on-the-job blow job Alex had given him earlier that night. It was a successful and easy close, no robbers or police involved, and Alex hopes Hercules will let them do it again real soon.

They tumble into the entry way, alternating between giggling and loudly shushing each other. Alex directs John down the hall to his bedroom while Alex makes a beeline for the bathroom, in need of a quick piss and glass of water.

The door is ajar, but refuses to budge, and it takes Alex eons longer than it should to realize what’s wrong. He gives the door a few more ineffectual shoves, but it won’t more than an inch. Alex curses his dumbass brother who apparently left something, something large, in the doorway. How the kid managed to even do that, and still get out, is baffling to Alex and only serves to demonstrate Philip’s commitment to laziness. It’s a hilarious image, Philip knocking something over – maybe that little cabinet with the extra towels they both thought was useless but couldn’t get rid of because their mom had lovingly picked it out at a garage sale – then staring at it before deciding, fuck it, and climbing laboriously out to avoid righting the thing.

With a growl of frustration and half a mind to go drag Philp’s ass out of bed and demand he fix it before Alex has to resort to peeing in the sink, Alex drops to his knees to swat around the edge of the door. He easily makes contact, but it takes his confused, probing fingers a stupidly long time to identify the cottony soft, somewhat squishable object, but when he does he freezes, fingers suddenly still like red-handed robbers.

“ _Philip?”_ he demands, voice edging on hysteria in its urgency. He jams his face into the gap between the door and the doorjamb and he hears what he couldn’t before: a sharp, uneven staccato of gasping breaths, each sounding more desperate than the last. “ _Philip!”_

His heart lodges somewhere in his throat.

His brother is on all fours, bent over and heaving like a scared animal and, more urgently, providing a solid blockade behind the door.

He readjusts and gets his arm all the way through to his shoulder, flailing until his hand finds Philip’s back, where it awkwardly flaps in the best approximation of petting he can accomplish from this angle. “Philip? Can you hear me? I need you to move, buddy. Just an inch. Philip?”

Philip makes a noise, and Alex thinks he hears the word ‘thirsty’ of all things, but there’s no movement and Alex begins to feel dizzy with fear. The jutting angles that press into his shoulder and the side of his face don’t register as he continues to press himself harder and harder into the gap.

“God, oh God.” Philp’s back is sweat-soaked and quivering under his hand and something is so unbelievably wrong Alex can’t even begin to fathom it.

“Alex?” John calls softly from Alex’s bedroom, still under the delusion that they need to keep quiet enough so as not to wake Philip.

“ _John! Get in here!”_ he all but screams and thundering footsteps answer him as John rushes down the hall to drop by his side.

“What the fuck?” he asks, voice full of the same fear beating itself senseless in Alex’s chest.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Alex responds without the time to care for the way his voice shakes or the way tears of frustration and fear build in the corners of his eyes. “Philip…I think he’s sick or something, but I can’t get in…”

John blinks at him like he’s stupid and wedges himself in next to Alex.

“Sorry, Philip,” he calls, not a trace of regret in his tone, as he jerks back and slams his shoulder into the door.

With a small cry and a thud, Philip’s body is shoved out of the way, knocking him onto his side and gaining nearly a foot of breadth in the gap.

Alex doesn’t spare the second to thank John or even to curse his own adrenalin-induced idiocy. He bursts through the door, ignoring the bite of the towel rack into his shoulder, and drops to his knees on the other side.

Oh Lord.

Philip lies listlessly on his side, arms and legs splayed where they had fallen, uncomfortable and awkward looking, while his dazed eyes, bloodshot beyond belief, stare unseeingly straight ahead. His breathing is erratic and fast, bordering on hyperventilation, but his unmoving body offers no signs of panic. The side of his face presses against the cool tile floor, making his face look distorted and partially missing. Strands of hair, darkened with sweat, hang in loose curls across his face in a way that would typically drive the teenager insane.

“Alex!” John calls, frustrated, from the other side, unable to get in past Alex’s body. Unceremoniously, Alex grabs Philip under the armpits like he hasn’t since Philip was five, and drags them both backward until Alex is resting against the shower and Philip is leaning back against his chest. John swings the door the rest of the way open and drops to his knees in front of the pair.

“What’s wrong with him?” Alex pleads, hating the way Philp’s head rolls lifelessly on his shoulder. Philip’s eyes are open still, but rather than comforting, that fact only serves to unnerve Alex more.

“It could just be a bad fever,” John suggests, pressing the back of his hand to Philip’s forehead. He nods, finding the skin to be hot and sweat soaked.

“He hasn’t been sick,” Alex counters, hating the tinge of uncertainty that nonetheless makes it into his voice. Would he have known even if Philp was sick?

Instead of responding, John sits back on his haunches and frowns at Philip like a particularly tricky puzzle.

Philip’s chapped lips brush against Alex’s chin as they part. “Water,” he croaks, still appearing incoherent for his unfocused eyes and restless heartbeat.

“Get him some water,” Alex demands, glaring as John ignores them both and leans forward. He clamps Philip’s head between his hands and forces the limp boy to face him.

“Philip,” he urges, shaking him slightly, “I need you to listen.” Not even a blink. John could be yelling at a cat for all the response Philip gives him. “How much did you take?”

“What are you talking about?” He’s furious, watching John ask foolish questions instead of doing anything productive. “Call 911,” Alex insists, having had enough. Something is obviously wrong beyond their capabilities. “And get water,” he adds, hating the parched whistle of Philip’s breath against his neck.

“How much, Philip?” John continues to ask. Alex has never hated someone so much as he hates John in the moment. Alex is pinned by the dead weight of his possibly dying brother and John _is doing nothing_ , content to let Philip expire right before their eyes.

“ _John!”_ he screams, reaching up to pry John’s calloused hands off of his brother’s clammy face. ” _What are you waiting for? Call 911!”_ Alex’s own heart is racing nearly as fast as Philip’s, if the frantic pulse Alex can feel on his wrist is anything to go by. He wants to lunge, to rip John away, to get help, to squirrel Philip away just to two of them, just as it’s always been. He’s never felt so consumed by helpless urgency and the electric energy that sticks to his insides is a painful shock he’d be happy to never feel again.

John easily gives in to Alex’s weak shoves against his hand and, to Alex’s utter disbelief, instead shoves his index finger up Philip’s nose.

Alex squawks in protest, jerking Philip backward and slamming his own back into the cold porcelain tub, but John removes the offending digit just as quickly. There’s blood along the tip of the finger and Alex glances down to see a smudge of it gathering under Philip’s nose, but that isn’t what catches his eye.

Alex’s thundering heart stutters to a stop as he recognizes the white powder.

Oh God.

“That’s what this is?” Alex asks urgently, unable to bring himself to believe the inevitable conclusion, “Cocaine? That’s…he’s…I mean, is this an overdose?” He spits the words out in a panicked rush, unable to reconcile his bookish, sarcastic little brother with a street drug. The word overdose pricks up a fresh batch of tears because that’s a word you hear about bad kids, about criminals, about those who live and work by the streets. That’s not a word to be associated with Alex’s brother, a smart and kind kid. Not after everything they’ve been through to get here. Not after Alex worked his ass off to make a life for them both.

Overdose is not a word that applies to Philip because overdose is a termination, one ringing with finality and loneliness.

If Philip dies, Alex will be the only remaining member of their family, the one left standing in the wake of the hurricane.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles, losing his head to the fear. He noses along Philip’s neck as he chokes on his own sobs.

“I don’t know if it’s an overdose. It could be a bad reaction or a bad batch,” John answers his earlier question with grim determination. Alex glances up to stare at John’s hard eyes and see a history of pain in them.

“What do we do? We need to call 911 right?” Alex repeats, desperate for someone else, someone knowledgeable, to swoop in and save the day. Philip’s body is pliant and lose, plastered against every curve of Alex’s body as if Philip was made of Play-Doh instead of bones and muscles. 

John frowns for just a moment more before shaking his head. “No, we can do this.” He jumps into action, reaching past Alex’s head to flick on the shower and making Alex flinch as a few cold drops splash up onto the back of his head.

“What? John, what are you doing? He needs a hospital!” Alex demands, beginning to disentangle himself from underneath Philip.

“There’s nothing to do for a cocaine overdose other than treat the symptoms. Hospital will mean involuntary rehab and you’ll likely be brought up on charges because he’s a minor. Negligence maybe. At the very least you’ll lose custody.” John expertly steps around Alex’s flailing body to rifle through the medicine cabinet above the sink. “Do you have any benzos?”

“Why would we give him more drugs?” Alex demands, hating the helplessness that invades every corner of his brain. He has nothing to go on here, he has to trust John even as the very fiber of his being urges him to protect Philip. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and the best thing he can do for Philip is to step back, even if it feels like a betrayal of everything he’s ever fought for.

“It’ll bring his heart rate and blood pressure down, hopefully prevent a stroke or a heart attack-”

“ _Hopefully?!”_

“Alex! Focus. They’d give him benzos at the hospital too. Probably a Valium. Do you have anything like that? Valium or Xanax? Lorazepam?”

“Lorazepam? That’s – that’s Ativan, right?”

Alex doesn’t wait for an answer. He charges into his bedroom and all but rips the little drawer on his bedside table out. He dumps the contents on his bed until he can find the white and yellow box. The pills are small and pasty yellow, encased in silver packaging and lined up in two parallel lines. Alex has taken the anxiety and insomnia medication on and off over the past few years, but he’s never been so glad to see it before.

When he returns to the bathroom, John is in the middle of getting Philip’s uncooperative arms through the arm holes of his t-shirt. 

“Here,” Alex says, shoving the pills into John’s hands and stripping the t-shirt off with practiced ease.

“Good. Give him one of these,” John says, handing the pills back and going to the sink for a glass of water. “The dangers of cocaine are heart attack and stroke caused by the fast heart beat and blood pressure as well as overheating. That’s why he was asking for water. He’s dehydrated. Give him the pill, give him some water, and get him under the spray.”

Alex can only nod in the face of John’s calm directions. It sounds accurate enough and John says it confidently, so Alex will have to assume he’s right. He pops one of the little yellow tabs into Philip’s mouth, tips a swallow of water in as well, then clamps his hand over Philip’s mouth until he swallows.

With John at Philip’s feet and Alex at his head, they lift the lanky teenager into the tub. Alex hisses as the chilled spray hits his back, but he ignores it and sits down on the damp porcelain. John angles the shower head so it hits the crown of Philip’s head.

They sit in silence, John taking up a perch on the edge of the tub, feet outside and back to Alex. His arms dangle between his knees and Alex spares a thought for how long a day it’s been. John started work eons ago and it feels like several days have passed since.

Alex’s own heart is still beating loudly, a _thump-thump_ that reverberates through his entire body. His skin has grown numb to the sting of the chilly water droplets, but as a whole he’s begun to shiver. He doesn’t pay it much mind though, instead letting his gaze rest on a scratch on the shower knob directly across from him. His mind wanders beyond the confines of the shower, beyond the apartment even. He thinks back to when they were younger, when life was simpler. When the biggest threat was a scrapped knee or an unappealing side of Brussel sprouts with dinner.

His entire life has been fighting and defending, kicking and scratching to prove himself. To honor his mother and her hard-working, gentle soul. To guard his brother against bullies and mistakes. To hold his head high and keep his pride intact.

Beyond the numb ache of his back and the heavy way his eyelids droop, Alex feels helpless. Worse even, he feels _foolish_. Stupid. How could he have missed this? All the signs were there. He thinks back to the “migraine”. Even then, he’d been baying for blood, convinced someone had tormented his poor brother.

The only person tormenting Philip, is Philip. And what is Alex supposed to do with that? How can he go forward, kicking the shattered remains of his trust along before him?

He doesn’t want to be selfish. He wants to devote himself to helping Philip recover. He wants to feel empathy and hope. But what he feels is hurt and betrayal. Alex has given _everything_ for this kid, this kid who he loved more than life itself. But it isn’t enough apparently. With his reckless disregard for his own life, Philip has spit in the face of everything Alex has ever done. It’s the most egregious wound imaginable. Philip has gambled with the one thing Alex can never bare to lose.

Anger chokes him for a moment, breaking through his numb façade. He drops his head to rest on Philip’s shoulder and doesn’t flinch as the water splashes onto the back of exposed neck.

He shudders and lets out a few harsh cries as he tries to reconcile just how close he came to losing everything today. Underneath Alex’s tight fingers, Philip’s heart has slowed significantly and his skin has become chilled to the touch.

He offers no resistance to the tears, large and sluggish, that well up and spill over. They burn trails down his cheeks where they disappear into the mix of water, sinking into obscurity. It’s not a nice cry, or even a calming one. It’s ugly and painful and he feels like his face is on fire, like the skin of his face is being stretched and swollen.

Above him the shower snicks off and the cold stream stops. He glances up, blinking his tear-blurred vision into clarity, and finds John standing next to him. The bartender offers him a washcloth, mercifully damp and clean, and Alex takes a moment to rub the rough, tepid material over his face, scrubbing off the sheen of grime that has collected there.

“The worst danger is over,” John says hollowly. He looks enervated, any sense of vitality long lost as the evening spilled into early morning. “He just needs rest now.”

Alex nods before struggling to extract himself from the sodden weight of Philip’s body. John hands him a towel and he lets himself burrow in its warmth for just a beat before reaching down to dry off Philip’s exposed chest. John disappears then reappears with a clean shirt for Alex and Alex is so drained that he can’t even bring himself to say thank you. But he holds John’s gaze for just a moment too long and he sees understanding in those hazel eyes.

Any adrenaline he had going for him has slipped down the drain with the last vestiges of water, tears, and sweat. He feels rubbery, as if merely standing up is a near miraculous feat.

Alex’s arms tremble as he carries Philip down the hall with John’s help. After they lay Philip’s still pliant body on his bed, John dismisses himself, saying “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

The room feels small and dark, even with the halo of dim golden light emitting for Philip’s bedside lamp. The room is fairly neat, especially for a teenager and doubly especially for a teenager related to Alex and his chaotic energy. The walls are a pale blue that Alex normally finds relaxing, but now they only serve to make the room seem cave-like.

He takes a seat in Philip’s desk chair and stares at the pale teenager.

What a colossal clusterfuck.

With a sigh he runs a hand through his greasy hair and massages his temples. Even to his own fingertips, his skin feels grimy and smeared with the sheen of residual panic. There’s anger buried somewhere deep in him, anger at Philip, at John, at himself, but he feels too exhausted for anything other than weary numbness at the moment.

He’d never felt such helplessness in his life. It’s compounded by the collected way John was anything but helpless. He knew what to do. He recognized what was going on. He directed Alex and saved the day. But instead of gratitude, Alex feels a childish ball of bitter resentment. It’s something akin to jealousy because Philip was _Alex’s_ brother, _Alex’s_ responsibility and he’d tried so hard for so long to prove to everyone that they didn’t need anyone else. Alex could do it all himself thank you very much.

Except, not so much because if Alex was alone, Philip would be dead.

“’Lex?”

Alex’s head flies up and finds Philip’s eyes, mercifully clear and coherent, staring up at him from an admittedly still pasty face.

“Philip!” Alex surges forward, dropping to his knees on the side of the bed. He trails a hand tenderly through Philip’s hair, finally starting to dry and return to its bouncy curl, before stilling his hand along his jaw, cupping Philip’s cheek in his hand.

“What’s happening?” Philip asks, voice scratchy and weak. He blinks around the room before, having failed to locate answers plastered along the walls, returning to Alex’s face, eyes questioning. Alex can’t help it, tears well up immediately, but how can they not when Philip is looking at him like that, with eyes full of innocence and trust? He looks astonishingly young, shrouded in blankets and face pale and unsure in the yellow light. It’s not a look Alex is unfamiliar with. Philip has turned to him for answers his entire life, always trusting Alex to handle it, to fix it, to do whatever needed to be done.

“Alex?” Philip croaks again, this time laced with fear and concern as the tears continue to slip unbidden down Alex’s face. With jerky movements, he leans up, dislodging Alex’s hand and bringing his own up to touch the salty drops.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Alex chants, voice catching as the fear and anger rush over him. This boy, trusting and concerned, is the very same who nearly died of a cocaine overdose just an hour or two ago. How can it be? Why? Alex wants to reach out and shake Philip, demand answers. He wants to curl in on himself and give up any and all responsibility he’s ever had. He wants to drop out of life and just exist quietly somewhere where it doesn’t hurt so much.

He lets his head slip through his hands, dropping onto the soft mattress, where he lets it rest, even as Philip’s shaky fingers gently pet him. It feels backward and twisted, but he can’t bring himself to move. His head feels so heavy, an insurmountable ball of weight better left where it is. Everything is quiet and dark from where his face presses against the comforter, which smells vaguely of their lavender detergent and spilled soda.

Alex is the first to tell people how industrious he is, how he’s persevered so long through pure determination alone. He’s never accused himself of laziness before. Even procrastination is a rare symptom. Yet, here he is, begging the Gods above for a full stop. He’s been juggling so many balls for so long, it’s only when one falls and the other cascade behind that he realizes just how much he’s been keeping up in the air. Work. School. Rent. John. Philip. For the first time he wants someone to take over, to let him rest.

“Alex…” Philip’s voice trails off and Alex can tell, from years of living together, that he’s tipping towards sleep. “What’s wrong?” he mumbles persistently, trying to deny his body what it so clearly craves.

Nothing less than Philip could drag him out of his dark cocoon, but the familiar pull of _brothersafetylove_ tips his head up. He’s not crying anymore and he blinks the last few sticky tears off his lashes. Philip’s limp hand slips off his head and drops onto the mattress, where it lies undisturbed. As expected, Philip’s eyelids are dropping, propped open through sheer will.

“Shh,” Alex soothes instinctively, hand coming to brush the curls off Philip’s forehead, “We’ll talk tomorrow. Just rest for now.”

 -

Alex is half expecting to find John asleep on the couch when he finally reemerges from Philip’s room, but John is sitting at the kitchen table and looks up alertly as Alex softly shuts the door behind him.

“Hi,” John offers gently as Alex approaches. He’s beyond words however, and Alex just lets his feet direct him forward until he comes to a stop behind John’s chair. He drapes his arms around John like a particularly clingy scarf and lets the side of his cheek rest against John’s soft hair. He hums an answer to John’s unasked question. _I’m okay. Just let me be for a moment._

John’s hand, the very same one that once came down on Alex’s ribs, comes up to stroke Alex’s arm like he’s something precious.

Philip is soundly asleep in the other room. Everything will go back to normal in a few days, but it feels like running full tilt at a wall to think about. No one outside of this house will ever know what happened, but Alex isn’t sure he can move forward so swiftly, undeterred and unaffected.

He’ll have to talk to Philip tomorrow. A long talk undoubtedly. Maybe therapy is called for. Who knows. Alex will likely research the matter to death in the wee hours of the morning the next few days, when he finds himself unable to sleep, haunted by the slack way Philip’s head had drooped, unstirred even by the cold shock of water.  

Somewhere along the way he dropped the ball. Spent too much time at the bar, or at work. He won’t let it happen again. He can’t.

It’s a lot think about. An entirely new ball to keep in the air. They’ll have to come up with plans, check-ins, restrictions and rules.

“Hey,” John says softly, ceasing his rubbing and instead enclosing the thin girth of Alex’s wrist in his fingers. “Whatever you guys need, you know? Anything. All you have to do is ask.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, voice hollow even as some part of him registers appreciation at John’s devotion. He’s too numb to bring it to the surface.

“Alex,” John says, wriggling until Alex is forced off of John. He moves to stand across from Alex, holding Alex’s limply dangling hands in his own, and bends to catch his downcast gaze. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I wasn’t here,” Alex counters, a small bite of annoyance growing in his voice, steadfastly refusing to make eye contact.

“You couldn’t have known-”

“I did know!” His small spark of guilt and anger is quickly fanned into a flame as his voice echoes around the small room. “I did know,” he hisses. “I even told you something was wrong, didn’t I?” The accusation rings in his head until he steps back and forces his hands out of John’s grasp.

John refuses to look hurt and Alex can’t tell if it’s a façade or not. It eggs him on further regardless. “And what did you tell me? _Let him come to you_ , you said! That worked out great, didn’t it?” Even as his anger unravels, he keeps his voice low to avoid waking his brother. His low snarls bode just as much danger as shout though, unbridled and warped by fear.

“Alex-” He’s still calm, tone beseeching and rational.

“No! You told me to leave him be. You told me that. _This is your fault._ You almost got my little brother killed tonight so don’t come at me with that ‘peace be with you’ nonsense!”

He’s gone too far. He knows it even as John’s eyebrows draw down and his nose flares. It’s not fair, but then, none of this is.

“If it weren’t for me,” John hisses back, voice equally low, “Philip would be dead. So don’t throw that shit at me, Alex. You’re pissed. I get that. But that’ll only get you so far.”

He stalks out of the kitchen, but Alex noticeably doesn’t hear the sound of the front door closing.

His anger drains just as fast as it came. He’s alone in the low glow of the kitchen, refrigerator humming quietly behind him. John’s right, of course, it was all bullshit, spurred on by fear and stress. Philip is seventeen. Their situation has forced both brothers into early independence and, if Alex is being honest with himself, the last time he had any real control over Philip was years ago.

The inevitable conclusion? Philip’s overdose is not John’s fault. Nor is it Alex’s, as much as his crushed soul would like to claim responsibility. The fault lies squarely with Philip himself. It’s a deep blow, to lay blame on that feeble boy in the other room. It feels like all of Alex’s hard work, his blood and sweat, it’s all for nothing, negated in the face of such a glaring failure.

But, Alex realizes, he did put his sweat and blood into shaping that kid into someone. Philip has never let him down before. He’s a hard-working kid, following in the enormous (and not entirely healthy) shoes Alex has laid for him. A mistake, Alex decides, does not mean Philip is a bad kid. It doesn’t mean he's a failure. It means he’s stressed. It means he needs an outlet and maybe a good brother-to-brother talk.

He trails after John, apology dripping off his lips.

John’s glance, open and fond, halts him before he can get a single word out.

“Maybe you don’t have to do this all alone?”

Internally, Alex drops to his knees and weeps out his gratitude. He doesn’t deserve this love, this devotion. John, for all his flaws, is the most loyal, kind-hearted man Alex has ever met. He’s warm afternoons and mountain top sunsets. He’s happy turtles and clear pond water, soft grass and summer breezes.

“Do you want me to go?” John asks, not unkindly.

“No,” Alex says, moving to encase the exhausted bartender in his arms, letting them support each other’s weight. “No. I want you to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that bittersweetness lived up to all your hopes! Thank you for reading and please let me know what you thought in the comments! 
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, I'm admittedly pretty attached to this verse, so if anyone has any prompts or other scenes you want to see (even if you're reading this a ways down the road since publishing) please drop me a note in the comment! I'd be more than happy to write more for this if people are interested. 
> 
> Like I said before, while John is right, that cocaine overdoses are only treated by treating the symptoms, you absolutely should seek medical attention because there is always the risk of heart attack or stroke regardless. Additionally, most states have a Good Samaritan law, which means that anyone who calls 911 for an overdose can't be prosecuted for drug possession (otherwise no one would seek treatment).

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE COMMENT - it makes me sooo happy!!
> 
> Have a lovely week :D


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